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Silence of the Scroll

The scroll is already written
in blankness.
Every crease is a syllable withheld.

Do not search for ink—
the silence itself
is the script.

What you unroll
is not revelation
but the weight of what resists speech.

The scroll keeps its covenant
with the unsaid,
binding absence into form.

To read it
is to listen
to pauses between words.

.

The first of October—

light breaks across the window

like mercy new each morning,

a psalm whispered through the glass.

The garden waits in silence,

its soil baptized by night rain,

each drop a reminder

where a Word does not return void.

Sun and shadow wrestle,

but even their quarrel

is held within Gentle hands—

cloud and flame, pillar and promise.

The kettle trills,

steam rising like prayer,

while I recall:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Perhaps the afternoon

will open in brightness,

perhaps not—

even in the shifting late sky

I see faithfulness,

and call it blessing.

at first the words

were stone in my mouth

silent, heavy, unyielding

you pressed a coin

into my palm—

thirty for betrayal,

or thirty for truth?

now the choice burns:

to open my eyes

and let the imperfect syllables fall,

or to seal them shut

and sip the bitter draught

that keeps the poem flawless

but forever unborn

better, perhaps,

to stumble in speech

than to die with silence

curled like a serpent

around the tongue

Outside the skylight, morning breathes—  

not a riddle, not a veil,  

but a hand stretched open,  

steady as the oak that keeps its watch.  

The sky is not abyss but garment,  

woven blue, a shawl of ease;  

its quiet folds smooth out the creases  

that the day had pressed upon my brow.  

The trees do not whisper secrets,  

they speak plainly:  

we are here, we endure,  

and in our rootedness, you may rest.  

No sphinx, no silence heavy with dread—  

only the brush of night’s last sigh,  

and the promise that even in darkness  

companionship is near,  

and light will always return.  

I Was Homeless Once

I was homeless once—
not metaphor, but pavement,
the night’s breath stiff with diesel,
a borrowed coat that never quite closed.
The city’s lights were not for me,
they glittered for windows I could not enter,
for tables where bread was broken
without my name.

I learned the grammar of benches,
the syntax of doorways,
the long pause of hunger
that makes even silence ache.
And still, the body endures—
it finds a corner,
it waits for dawn,
it bargains with cold.

But there is another exile—
homeless in a palace without you.
Marble floors echo louder than alleys,
chandeliers mock with their excess of light.
Every room is furnished,
yet emptier than a street at 3 a.m.
The bed is wide,
but no voice answers the turning.

This homelessness of heart
is less spoken of,
yet more corrosive:
to be roofed, clothed, fed—
and still unsheltered.

I was homeless once,
and I survived.
But I would not wish
the palace-emptiness on anyone.
Better the cold stone
than the warm room
where no one waits.

.

 Station Clock
The iron hands refuse to hurry.
A whistle threads the air—
not command, but reminder
that every departure
is also a mock-up of return.

 Tracks
Parallel lines persuade us
that direction is destiny,
yet the gravel between them
is littered with weeds
that never bought a ticket.

 Compartments
Faces blur in the glass,
each reflection a stranger
carrying the same suitcase of silence.
We sit across from ourselves,
pretending the journey is elsewhere. 

 Terminus
The platform empties,
but the rails keep singing
long after the train has gone.
What remains is not arrival,
but the weight of having moved.

.

between the measure and its lingering chord  

a pause leans into itself—  

not absence, but a held breath  

threading the room with quiet weight.  

chairs remember their occupants,  

dust rehearses its slow descent,  

and the air waits,  

as if something might begin again.  

… and the night forgets its name  

the silence gathers in the rafters,  

an aftersound still trembling in the beams

Beyond unbelief, beyond belief,
there lies an open desert.

In the heart of that vastness
our longing hangs,
a yearning without object.

When the mystic arrives,
he bows his head,
resting in surrender.

There is no unbelief there,
no faith either—
and no “place”
as we understand place.

.

Would they laugh at the irony,

two legends sharing a stool, 
Trading tales of prophets, tyrants,

and the stubbornness of fools. 

Would they toast to free will,

that double-edged gift, 
Or argue who shoulders the blame

when the world starts to drift. 

Perhaps they'd find comfort

in the roles they both keep, 
Two sides of a coin, twirling

and spinning, endlessly deep.

.