dissolving softly
in your own self‑proof,
— or are you but a sign —
split open,
roofless,
aloof —
I chase a meaning
already fleeing,
already
undone,
and shadow answers me
with a flash
that comes un‑spun.
The dream —
false‑king
of kingdoms made of smoke —
opens its doors —
no —
closes —
no —
they’ve broken.
I walk —
or stagger —
or slip
outside my stride,
in a theatre
where every word
un‑does
its own in‑side.
The unseen is your only throne.
See how the throne is over‑thrown.
And I —
poor witness
to a text un‑making itself —
reach out my hand
toward the air —
the air itself
evac‑u‑ates.
O specter of the real —
mask with trembling lips —
you cry
without a voice,
you return
in shattered slips.
I try to grasp your name —
it falls
in shards of glass —
and every shard declares:
“You shall not know my mass.”
So drifts my mind —
ship‑wrecked
in the deep,
where meaning hides,
where forms collapse
and weep.
Yet in this chaos —
something faint
takes flight:
a breath,
an almost‑word,
a silence
giving light.
