Home of the Unknown
A Threshold…
In the kingdom of unseen light
is a realm stitched from starlight and forgotten songs,
where time drips slowly from the petals of silver trees,
while a wanderer journeys without armor,
guided not by maps,
but by the ache in his chest and the whisper of tears
that shimmer like moonlit pearls.
There is no preparation for the moment the sky forgets its name
and falls inward,
folding like a dying star into the hollow of your chest.
Here…
Clarity is a creature of smoke and feathers,
emerging only when the sky weeps fire.
It does not speak,
it sings a melody that unravels illusions
and paints truth across the soul like frost on glass.
Vibrations rise…
The demon of faux comfort slumbers beneath the soil,
its steaming breath a lullaby of numbness,
its hunger voracious.
The tundra…
Is haunted by an echoing hollow,
where survival wears a crown of thorns
and isolation blooms like black roses in the garden of the forgotten.
Some hearts…
In this world are lanterns lit by lightning,
still open,
still beating,
still daring to embrace the wild magic of the unexpected.
They pulse into the storm not to conquer it,
but to be transformed,
to become the storm,
to dance with the unknown and call it home.
Survival…
Becomes a crown of thorns worn by the dreamer
who mistook silence for peace.
The demon we feed wears our face
and dances in mirrors when we forget how to scream.
But hope,
hope is the phoenix that dies nightly in the furnace of despair and rises with wings of glass and a heart made of storms.
It is the myth we dare to believe when the world is nothing but ash and static.
Some hearts…
Are altars built from shattered hymns,
still pulsing, still open,
still willing to kneel before the unknown and call it sacred.
Delving deeper still…
Beneath the ruins,
hope stirs,
a flaming phoenix egg nestled in ash,
cracking open with the heartbeat of the courageous.
It rises not in triumph,
but in trembling defiance,
its wings stitched from broken promises
and dreams that refused to die.
Ron