Tremor

Before thought–the heart: a struck bell's hum, in the chest's dark chapel. No word. Only thrum that echoes the void where meaningwill climb. Is this the soul's raw conference? A draft. of prayer–unwritten–lifting like a raft on some deep tide. Not speech. Not yet. But chime of nerve and grace. Mind fumbles, blind, to trace this pulse–intent–before it wears time's face. The vibration: God's fingerprint, half-dreamed, still tuning the harp of the unsung.