This voice, this half-formed entity,
a fractured alchemy
between what is let go
and the unknown it would follow
one voice, one horizon, not amplified
but swallowed by the sky.
Akin to water, it seeks fissures,
filling cracks where it empties rivers.
Where the wind meets the waves
there is no division.
Where precision meets what you change
there’s another revision.
The moon was the only light
in a sky of blindness,
there’s no direction given.
A lost cause to lingering questions,
this voice, a puncture point in the abyss,
swims in bliss, dreams it is borderless,
like a star trailing off and incoherent,
it is moving where you can no longer hear it.
This breath, tiny and drowned out
in auditorium vastness
in the ceilings of night
that capsize all ambition,
disappearing like coins
in the hands of the magician.
A disembodied voice rippling to the far shore,
another turn in Charon’s oar
reveals the gleaming obols
from the moon’s folklore.
Joining the masquerade of clouds,
this breath hung between lines
as if on a highwire
that is pulled across the sky
to soak up what is left of the light,
this voice that illuminates the night.
yakskinpocketnotes 