47.The Fractured Echo of What Never Was

Where light folds backward upon itself, past the breaking

of things that never stood, there was once a thread, taut—

or was it slack, twisted through the seam of undone seas,

a current humming not in waves but in the absence of form?

Who leans here, in the corner of an angle unsquared?

A figure, no—less than a figure, more than a shadow,

etched in the residue of an unspoken breath.

But whose? Whose breath? Or was it only the echo of glass

that bends before it cracks, a silence between the shatterings?

There—did you see? No. You cannot. For the eyes, too,

are spun in reverse, turning upon their own lids,

unfolding like a map of nowhere, a spiral of dust,

where rivers, unwatered, dream of wings, not tides.

But did the water fall? No. There was no fall,

only the thought of it. Only the idea of descent

without beginning, a step taken before the stair appears.

And the word—it was there, wasn't it? Or was it

merely the thought of sound, breaking into quiet flame?

Once, beneath a ceiling that forgot its own sky,

there was a door, but no floor, no walls—

only the frame of things pretending to hold,

folding inward, folding always inward,

until even the fold forgot what it had once contained.

Or was it the fold itself that bled? Bled into the lines,

the lines that split before they touched,

turning again, upon themselves, a cipher of unmarked

geometry, drawn not in ink, but in the pause

before ink dares to spill, before thought

decides to shape itself into knowing.

Do you hear? No, it was not sound. Not quite.

Only the hum of a silence grown thick in the void,

where wings that never flew still rustle,

and something—a hand? No, less than a hand—

reaches to catch what was never falling.

The tower—yes, there was a tower once,

not built, not unbuilt, but curled into the edge

of a breath held too long. Or was it shorter

than a blink, bending into itself,

a tower that stood only in the forgetting of walls?

Who made it? Or was it made?

No answer. No answer, but the question itself fades

into the grain of things unremembered,

where the question breaks before it can be asked.

And now, the line—the line that falls flat,

not in the silence, no, but in the tremor

of what could have been thought, if thought

were wet enough to plant roots in the dry hum of air.

Was it there? The king, the kingdom, the name?

Was there even a rise, or just the shape of ascent,

unmade before it began, bending into itself

as if the climb were nothing but a pause?

Pride—was it there? Or was it just the flicker

of a crown never worn, never even forged?

A kingdom of ash and air, blown before it could burn,

turning inward, always inward, toward a throne

built not for sitting, but for leaning into the absence of fall.

Turn back now, if you can, to the page never turned,

the word never written, the quill dipped not in ink

but in the forgetting of ink, loops spiraling

without form, without meaning—just the breath

of something that almost was, but never quite.

How do you ask? No, the question folds before

it finds its lips, before the lips themselves decide

to speak, if speaking was ever more than the shiver

of glass unbroken, a clock that ticks without time.

There—beneath the cracks of a sky that never held—

do you see it? No, not quite. Between, always between,

where the eye that almost opens shuts before the blink,

gleaming not in sight, but in the absence of being seen.

Do you hear the hum now? No, not the hum—

only the echo of a door closing that never opened.

And in the closing, a mask, a light burning

through the frame of a face that never wore it.

Pride, you say? No, it was not pride. It was the curve

of a thing that stood without standing, rising

without rising, an ascent too small to matter,

and yet too large to ignore, bent by a wind

that never breathed but still trembled at its own edge.

Who stands there? No, no one stands,

for there was no climb, no fall, just the shape

of something that almost began to rise

but curled inward, always inward, into the shape

of a crown made of whispers, worn only by the wind.

And now—again—the thread pulls,

but not tight, not loose, just unbroken

in the fold of itself, bending always, always bending

into the tower that never was, but still waits,

curved at the edge of a breath never taken.