Thrum at the Threshold
Written: August 4, 2026 for a contest by Silent One
Quote: "All opposites unite, All that is profane becomes sacred again." By Rumi.
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I move through the dusk
where the air feels half-holy, half-feral—
a thin-veined shimmer
trembling between grace and grit.
Some nights, the mind cleaves
like a slow-burn seedpod,
one part stretching skyward,
one part anchoring in dark loam
where old impulses hush and hear.
A drumbeat in that place—
A firm, orotund thrum
like aureole tracing archaeology of rust
like a breath caught
at the threshold of ardor and augury
I've felt the infinite in finite foofaraw
a faint flare of a fancy
that flouts all fetters
the way a memory falters
and still summons song.
the way serendipity sidles sunward
And sails, steers by secret stars
And I've peered past the profane.
in the pellucid, pearl-lit moments:
a misshaped munificence of misery
a molded by mourning mercy,
a trembling truth that teeters
but never topples.
Both breathe beneath—
the balm and the bruise
the straight line and the stumble,
the silence and the thunder.
I walk with them
as if they were twin shadows
weaving at my heels,
each whispering
its untamed vision
of what I might become.
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