The Edge of Language
On the edge of something
language hadn’t been invented yet
to describe what I was seeing,
the horizon whispered secrets,
color drenched in honey and twilight,
where shadows danced like old friends,
smiles and sighs mingled
in the liquid air.
The sky was a canvas,
not of stars, but of ideas,
shapes that bent and folded
like dreams never quite dreamed,
a tapestry woven with possibility.
I reached out, fingertips grazing
the pulse of something new,
unfurling,
tender like a first breath,
heavy with silence,
swelling with wonder.
Time stretched in soft arcs,
each moment a petal unfurling,
the world a chorus of visions,
where mountains cradled the sun,
and rivers carried laughter
in their swift embrace.
I stood, suspended,
on the cusp of discovery,
heart racing in rhythm
with the melody of the unseen,
the unsaid.
In that space, I was lost
and found,
a witness to the unspoken,
to the edge of language,
waiting to be born.
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