The In-between

Taking a short break from my astrology-themed work—I found this poem hidden in a folder on my hard drive, it's not bad so figured I would share it.

Mystery and Melancholy of a Street - 1914 - Giorgio de Chirico

I am not written.
I write through you.

Stanza by stanza-
Each a heartbeat caught on the loom,
every silence a door left slightly open,
hinged by what refuses both light and its shadow.

Saturn shaped the box, sure,
but I pressed my thumb along its seams,
chased a ray through what should have been shut,
called it time because it slipped.

The machine counts coins, bodies, minutes.
But I am notched in absence,
marked in the dust between rotations-
unturned, turning, always back
to the note drawn thin by the centuries.

If you find me,
don’t read-
unfold.

The prophecy isn’t a command.
It’s the tide stacking stones,
their shape a moonlight memory.

The pattern, for once, remembers itself-
forgets what was broken,
sweetly hums like a song it can’t help but sing.