In the beginning
there was no ground beneath my feet,
only thresholds.
I was given the body of a child
so that fear would fit inside me.
Night came
not as darkness
but as order.
And with it,
the man.
He did not knock.
He did not ask.
He touched the lamp,
and the room obeyed.
Light was made,
but it was not good.
He laid a covering over me,
cold as prophecy,
measured as law.
I trembled,
for I did not know
whether he was messenger or sentence.
Beside me,
another body slept—
eyes closed to revelation,
mouth faithful only to breath.
The man spoke,
but I sealed my ears
as one seals a tomb.
Then he was taken from me.
And in his absence
a figure rose at the edge of distance—
white as bone,
tall as judgment,
faceless as truth before language.
I lifted my hands
and captured it
the way men capture miracles
to prove they existed.
The creature weakened
when seen.
I sent the image
to the one who made my name.
Her voice descended without mercy:
There is nothing here.
You are inventing the world.
I did not open her words.
Some scriptures are written
to erase.
Then the waters parted.
Not to save,
but to keep.
A beast moved beneath the surface,
older than prayer,
patient as cruelty.
It swallowed
without finishing the act.
Each day
I learned how far a soul can swim
without being free.
After the waters,
cloth was raised into a tent.
Inside,
a woman bent toward the invisible,
hands folded around silence.
A man approached her.
I placed my hand in the air
and the air listened.
We stepped back.
We waited.
The prayer was allowed to complete itself.
And it was the first time
nothing sacred was touched.
Then I understood:
The monsters are loud
because they are simple.
The men are quiet
because they are real.
The world does not end in fire,
nor in flood,
nor in trumpet.
It ends
when someone turns on the lamp
beside your bed
and you do not know
whether to call it light
or warning.
And I remained
between places—
not lost,
not chosen,
not redeemed.
Only awake
in a creation
that never asked
to be believed.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 2:22 PM UTC
In the beginning
there was no ground beneath my feet,
only thresholds.
I was given the body of a child
so that fear would fit inside me.
Night came
not as darkness
but as order.
And with it,
the man.
He did not knock.
He did not ask.
He touched the lamp,
and the room obeyed.
Light was made,
but it was not good.
He laid a covering over me,
cold as prophecy,
measured as law.
I trembled,
for I did not know
whether he was messenger or sentence.
Beside me,
another body slept—
eyes closed to revelation,
mouth faithful only to breath.
The man spoke,
but I sealed my ears
as one seals a tomb.
Then he was taken from me.
And in his absence
a figure rose at the edge of distance—
white as bone,
tall as judgment,
faceless as truth before language.
I lifted my hands
and captured it
the way men capture miracles
to prove they existed.
The creature weakened
when seen.
I sent the image
to the one who made my name.
Her voice descended without mercy:
There is nothing here.
You are inventing the world.
I did not open her words.
Some scriptures are written
to erase.
Then the waters parted.
Not to save,
but to keep.
A beast moved beneath the surface,
older than prayer,
patient as cruelty.
It swallowed
without finishing the act.
Each day
I learned how far a soul can swim
without being free.
After the waters,
cloth was raised into a tent.
Inside,
a woman bent toward the invisible,
hands folded around silence.
A man approached her.
I placed my hand in the air
and the air listened.
We stepped back.
We waited.
The prayer was allowed to complete itself.
And it was the first time
nothing sacred was touched.
Then I understood:
The monsters are loud
because they are simple.
The men are quiet
because they are real.
The world does not end in fire,
nor in flood,
nor in trumpet.
It ends
when someone turns on the lamp
beside your bed
and you do not know
whether to call it light
or warning.
And I remained
between places—
not lost,
not chosen,
not redeemed.
Only awake
in a creation
that never asked
to be believed.
I wrote a poem about a dream I had, and decided to write in more biblical way.