Weightless Mind

The Geography of the Invisible

My eyes have retired like old fishermen

who no longer need the sea to know the tide.

I have walked through the fire of seeing,

the lightning that cracks the skull of the world,

and now, there is only this—a fertile darkness,

a cellar where the soul ripens in silence.

I have seen the beauty: that cruel, golden hawk.

I have seen the truth: a cold stone in the pocket of a coat.

And I tell you, they move like smoke through the fingers of a giant.

The statues of emperors crumble into breadcrumbs,

and the great rivers forget their own names

as they run toward the throat of the salt.

Everything passes.

The iron rusts in the middle of its own strength.

The rose enters the earth to learn the alphabet of the roots.

But here, in the hollow where my sight used to be,

something else has taken root. It is not a thought.

It is not a ghost. It is a thick, pulsing fruit.

It is the love that remains when the theater is empty.

A love like a loaf of bread on a wooden table,

simple, terrifying, and vast.

I am blind, yes, but I am inhabited by a sun

that does not need the sky to burn.

In the end, there is only the pulse.

The wide, dark, unkillable heartbeat of everything.

Only love. Only the root.

Only the light that we are,

when we finally

stop

looking.

......

Echoes of the Liminal Veil

Beneath the pallor of a moon's cold gaze,

Where shadows weave their silken, spectral thread,

The soul divests its borrowed, false malaise—

And bares the truth that wakes the silent dead.

The outer realm, with love's illusory chain,

And hate's sharp barbs, like daggers forged in ire,

A misfit robe that chafes the spirit's vein,

Dissolves to naught, consumed in inward fire.

Belonging flees? No vanishing, but flight—

A pilgrim's march through realms of unconfined,

From others' yokes to self's eternal light,

Where deeper roots in solitude are twined.

Ah, "deserving"—that grim, imprisoning grate,

A ledger etched by cosmic, pitiless hand;

Love claims no prize from merit's hollow state,

But hums in chords where hidden souls expand.

Hate's arrow strays, a mirror to the source,

The sender's shade in labyrinthine gloom;

Fate yields its ore, no verdict on the course,

But forge for wills that bid the darkness bloom.

In truth's unyielding spire, thou stand'st secure,

No license craved, no throng to vouch its might;

From Basquiat's fierce scrawls, raw and impure,

To Seneca's calm vigil 'gainst the night.

The bridge's arc, in avant-garde's faint cry,

Alone persists amid the fleeting tide—

Thy lens, the world's own eye, beneath the sky,

Where isolation births what truth can't hide.

Liminal hush, with weight of leaden air,

Isolation's forge, where creation wakes;

No wage to claim thy being's rightful share—

Thou art the dream the universe partakes.

Yet from the raven's beak, a warning low:

"Un-belonging" is the path to hearth's true flame.

In quiet depths, let authentic rivers flow—

For in thy truth, the cosmos knows its name.