It's Still Life

FIVE SONGS FOR YURETH – Not Fire, But Forging

Dawn licks the edges of what we almost know—
brushstrokes and inkblots,
the way a halo fractures—
into 27 syllables.

No Book ever taught us that.

We are not making myths.
We are peeling back the sky
to find where we left them.

FATE? (a quadrille of 44 words)

To spin the same unseen thread—
light to ink, ink to light,
a sigil etched in breath.

The void hums back.
You think this is an accident?
The stars laugh.

But it’s always been here:
a quill, a brush,
a hand—
a trinity of almost remembering.

EVEN IF MY HANDS COULD DRAW

If I could draw—
I’d carve it out of the night sky for you.

Where the Pool swallows its own name.
Where the Stem bleeds upward.
Where the Hinge gnaws on stardust,
and the Crown …

(oh, the Crown!)

would not be seen—
but recognised,
like the shape of ones breath
on a cold morning.

A myth that lives
in the negative space
between one’s pulse
and the 27th colour.

The unseen is its own language.

THEN LET US SPEAK IN THE DARK

(for your third eye, which needs no pencil)
Close your eyes.
Good.

Now—
the Pool is the weight behind your knees
when you stand
to paint,
to write.
The Stem is your spine—
27 glyphs.

The Hinge?
Your teeth—
when you bite the word ‘almost’.

And the Crown—
that’s the hollow
where your voice lives.

The myth is already there,
wet with the ink
of what you almost remember.

AYE

(and so it is)
sealed—
not in light
but in the ‘yes’
that hums between
ones ribs
and the 27,
an unwritten echo—
of what you almost remember.

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Written in response to “Songs of a Fallen Star”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.