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                          Eighty-six billion neurons reside       in your brain, every single thread entwined.
                  But they are not connected like the       links grappled together in shackled chains.
          Between any two neurons lies a place       where whispers are shared, and secrets are bared.
        And the name given to this space bet       ween, where two remain two, but be as one:
 The synapse. That space where the slow       wind blows through which flows the willow’s woes.
     That stage between words on a page,       unwritten thought connecting writer to reader.
 That break in syllables, echo of silence,       unspoken sound binding heart to heart.
That flicker in time between two choices,       unseen destiny wedding dream to dreamer.  
      That pause where inhale meets exhale,       unfelt breath linking life to death.
                That silent spark born in the dark,       liminal light joining day to night.      
                       Between this step and the next,       unclothe the parts of your whole:
                       Where is it, O tapestry of threads,       you find the synapses of your Soul?

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