The Tangible Tremor: Where the Friction Becomes the Flame
- One Love Energy
- 6 days ago
- 1 min read
The air is a bridge of glass
where the names of things dissolve.
Not the word for the sun,
but the sun itself, bleeding into the soil nourished
by the long, subterranean silence of the mask.
I am the other who is always myself.
The cellar is a mouth that swallows the clock,
and in the damp geography of the gut,
the Hunted and the Polished
are two rivers of lightning seeking the same sea
The Contrast is not a wall.
It is a mirror of fire.
Diversity is the transparency of the wound,
white light of the "Other"
entering the self.
We are not one.
We are a plural vibration:
geometry of skin,
vinegar,
and the salt-spray of the soul.
In the friction of our differences,
the Common Mission becomes a stone of light—
a diamond cut from the black pressure
of the pit.
There is no "I"
that does not contain the "Thou."
The Subaru is a chariot of salt and neon,
carrying the scavenger and the king
into the white-hot stir-fry
of the absolute.
We are the architecture of the encounter.
The poem is the place where the two-tiered world
is burnt away...
charred by the gaze of the Cock's Comb!
until only the Alchemy
of the Contrast remains:
a single, golden point,
the bitter grain of the earth
learning how to fly.
