I’ve hidden lost sermons inside my casual breath.
I folded them tight, pushed them into sarcasm.
We laughed at the joke—you missed the ambiguity.
Some words sharpen when their form leaves a chasm.

Some things called unstable, unkempt, or unfit—
we'll kneel to their ruins once their time is gone.
No one hears the meaning in a prophet's mid-scream,
but we quote them in the wake of their truth breaking dawn.

Some of us never ask to be understood,
just hoping to echo in someone’s afterthought.
Because truth isn't loud—it’s subtly dissonant—
and too often mistaken, or ignored, left to rot.

I live like a myth half-believed by its maker.
I pulse in and out, like static through wires.
My silence burns me louder than the sermons of choirs,
in temples built of gold from a priest's own desires.

I left signals in inkblots, on letters I never sent,
and in the way that I’d pause before saying goodbye.
And one day you’ll study those absences close—
they’ll sing you my song when I can no longer try.

I left my scarred essence outside in the rain
to see if it rots, or a new one would sprout.
Turns out, it would sing—but only backwards,
and only to those trying to block it out.

I once felt so lost, I swallowed a compass
just to feel something that points at a real me.
But “north” kept on changing its mind, and still does.
Some directions are time-tested, but some are still yet to be.

If you were to ask what my words really meant,
I might say, “What makes you think they mean anything?”
Meaning is like a parasite; it only lives when it’s fed—
and I’ve been deliberately starving it to death, beautifully.

There’s a hallway in me that will never lead out—
just loops and dissociates in a mind like my own.
The paradox is fixed. You can’t change its course.
You’d rather tread it blind, but it insists on being shown.

I once carved my bitter, stubborn truths into air.
Won’t see them, but you’d cough and know they were there.
You’d call them my smoke and call me unstable.
You’d condemn their scope. You might not even care.

And maybe I am filthy, misbegotten, and unstable.
But when my tremors stop, you might notice my frame,
and the glow that I buried might finally surface.
Maybe love me for the darkness that you once shamed.

You might quote me clean, ridding my words of the blood.
Reframe my static as signals from a Godhead.
When you sing my sonnets, you might gild them in bleach.
Oh, I promise—this all sounds much better when I’m dead.