Notes About The Poem
The old, steady foundations of our world are quietly melting away into a restless sea of uncertainty.
Sighs in the Gathering Dark
The heavy iron anchors dissolve,
giving up their iron shapes to the black fluidity below.
There is no coast left stubborn enough to anchor this tide.
The currents don’t just pull—they misplace the mind entirely.
We traded the absolute for a handful of the gray shade,
building a gallery of cheap mirrors
where everyone manufactures their own version of the light.
Look up: the sky is relative now,
and the soul’s quiet armor simply unlaces itself under that stare.
We are crowded, yet completely atomized.
Fifty people in a room, each sealed in a drywall box of their own design,
calling the silence peace
while the old, shared altars gather dust in the corner.
The origin story is beginning to rot.
We are intentionally scraping the marrow out of our history,
weeding the damp soil so fiercely
that we kill the very seed that brought us out of the ground.
The big myth split. It shattered into a thousand shallow creeks,
leaving nothing but the raw, tribal friction at our core.
Look at the cathedrals of institutional trust—
they aren’t falling; they are turning quietly to gray powder.
The middle is gone. The edges are frayed like old rope.
Something abstract and unreadable is climbing the numbers in the sky
while the heavy, physical foundations go dark.
An invisible mesh is being woven between the thought and the meat of the hand,
keeping our eyes amused with small lights
while the ground beneath the floorboards shifts an inch to the left.
The macro-rhythm finishes its circle.
It is a simple bending toward the dirt.
Just a tired civilization, sitting in the dark,
breathing on the cold coal,
forgetting the geometry of the spark.
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