It's Still Life

14 of 27 Driftspire – The Poem – The joy of being completely unknown

14 of 27 – The Liturgy of Driftspire

I. The Unbuttoning
No name.
No story.
Just the hush
of fog dissolving the edges of memory.

Here, you shrug off the coat of who you were
and let it pool at your feet—
a puddle of forgotten pronouns.
Step over it.
The air tastes better here,
where no one knows your teeth.

II. The Mist
Driftspire rises not as vapour, but as permission.
Be the stranger buying peaches at midnight.
Be the shadow even the crow ignores.
You are not hidden.
You are unwritten.

The body becomes light
when it stops begging to be read.

III. The Unlabelled
Not lost—loose.
Not free—but floating.
The heart, untranslated, is a cipher.
No one is watching.
No one is weighing.
The silence listens from the back row.

Even Felreil’s quill hesitates here,
ink drying mid-air,
afraid to stain such a clean expanse.

IV. The Wet Stone
This is the colour of a self unburdened—
cool and porous, drinking sky
without apology.

Press your palm to it.
It does not ask Whose touch is this?
It only whispers Ah yes—
another nameless miracle.

V. The Arrival
Not escape. Not erasure.
Only the relief of a door left unlatched.
This version of you
never had to kneel
to belong.

You were always whole.
They just made you forget
how to wear it.

VI. The Wonder
A child points at you in the market.
“Who’s that?”
Their mother smiles: “No one, sweet. Just the wind.”

You grin into your collar.
How delicious, to be no one’s ghost.
How holy, to be everyone’s echo.

VII. The Kneeling
To dwell in Driftspire is to kneel
at an altar of your own unmaking.
Not to pray, but to play
with the pieces they told you
were sacred.

Build a spire.
Let it drift.
Answer to nothing
but the fog’s soft yes.

Driftspire is the colour
of a soul slipping its leash.
Breathe deep.
The air is lighter here.

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