Listen,

a harmony can be heard
in the silence between words

between thought it rumbles
from the frequency of roots

It may not be god as much
as It may not be the past: a variable

among the millions that are
who we were a second ago

It sounds like skin tingling
the sharp hum at the back of the neck

It climbs to the top of the skull
floats among the stars

that lights the night as some try to
find meaning in It

Others let It navigate a path
past the thicket of daily life

to use the sun’s heat like paint
on the brush of breath:

the art of breathing
becomes your obra-prima.

Thank you for reading. If this poem spoke to you, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

You can share a comment or explore more of my work — including immersive audio versions and typewritten drafts — on my [Substack] — I’d love to have you there.