Somewhere
beneath the eyelid's last blink
where glass bleeds light,
and truth flinches like a rat in church,
a Psalm shatters,
cracking the spine of silence.

I saw God’s silhouette in reverse
a negative burn,
its arms were questions,
its eyes were hollows,
and its scream—a flicker in dead film.

Tell me
what’s a universe if not
a deaf match struck in a snowstorm?

I licked the ash of a star once.
It tasted like birth
and every lover who ever left without closing the door.

Time taps its nails on bone
tick. tick. tick.
Each second a parasite,
sipping marrow,
etching the shape of forgetting
on my skull.

No map.
No north.
Only echoes whispering:
“you were never here.”

Even solace is a trick
a ghost draped in perfume and mother’s hands,
gone when you turn to name it.

I broke a clock to stop the wound.
(It laughed.)

Now
I collect shadows.
I press them between pages of not-quite-meaning,
each a brittle wing.

Is this God?
—a hum in the static,
—a fault line in grammar,
—a riddle whispered backwards
through the teeth of a dying flame?

Listen:
There is a drone inside the ordinary.
It gnaws.
Not loud
but certain.

You want reason?
You want rules?

Here’s the cipher:
There is none.
Only this:

A flicker. A fracture. A fall.
Then something unnamed
that feels like knowing.

But isn’t.