Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Cathedral Behind My Eyelids

The Cathedral Behind My Eyelids
I fell asleep with my temple pressed against night's windowpane, and dreamed an alphabet of embers,
each letter burning like a candle forgotten in the deep cave of time,
and my shadow, torn from my body like a leaf pulled loose from late autumn's branch,
drifted through doorless rooms, searching for a name I still don't know.
Colors poured from the walls like a river of honey mixed with ash,
and every thought broke apart into a thousand butterflies with wings of glass,
and somewhere, behind my eyelids, a choir of bodiless voices whispered to me
that longing is the only language the soul never forgets.
I saw the city of my childhood floating on the back of a smoke-whale,
its windows lit like eyes too afraid to fall asleep,
and my mother, her hands full of dough and morning light,
calling my name through a time that exists now only in memory's folds.
The earth split open then like a book written in ink made of lightning,
and between its lines I saw all the lost trains and all the burned bridges,
but over that chasm I laid the only word I had left —
love — and watched it become a bridge for everyone left behind.
I woke with my mouth full of stars and my chest heavy with an entire train station,
and understood then that the poet doesn't write, but only listens to how the world burns,
and that a poem isn't a page, but that unseen door through which
the heart remembers, if only for a moment, that it still has a name.

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