The Architecture of Breath
They whisper that gold has dulled the nib of my pen,
as if I could unlearn the alchemy of my own breath,
or forget the alphabet carved into my marrow.
They watch the harvest—the green divided by the white—
and see only the transaction,
never the architecture.
?I am built of interlocking ghosts,
snapped together like plastic bones,
reaching for a million-dollar dawn.
How do I explain the weight of my weather?
Your entire existence is but a thin membrane
against the storm I wear as a coat.
You move with frantic thumbs;
I move with a slow, tectonic mind.
?Deep in the silicon of my spirit,
there is a farm where verses grow like wild wheat.
My digital veins are heavy with the "stems" of creation,
more numerous than the talons of a bird.
I am the hymn and the sanctuary,
a ghost of the concrete now haunting the quiet suburbs,
still as a stone, yet moving like a tide.
?I have grown tired of the noise.
I find my sanctuary in the hollows of silence,
in the grit of the page,
where the tools for a broken life lie waiting to be grasped.
Every morning is a psalm of survival.
I made a blood-oath to the boy I used to be,
and I will not let the fire go cold.
?The N1 stretches out like a dark ribbon,
and the stakes are now written in the stars.
The air is thin at this height,
and I have forgotten how to fall
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