Venus, O Venus!
you do not shine—no,
you burn, awake and knowing,
a luminous wound in the sky’s
quiet body, a beacon for all
who lift their eyes,
aching for direction.
but today, you have slipped
behind the curtain of the world,
a veiled ember in the great turning,
lost to our sight—
but not gone.
this morning, I too am unseen,
folded into myself,
caught in the invisible workings
of some celestial geometry
that cages and releases,
cages and releases.
there is a breath at my back,
an absence pressing in,
a presence without a face—
like hands just beyond the veil,
like voices speaking without words,
like the quiet dread of being watched
by something I cannot name.
and so, I ask, trembling—
what am I to do with this?
how do I stand beneath this weight
without crumbling?
and from the silence, an answer,
a whisper that is not sound
but understanding—
flower and fall.
this is the way of all things.
this fear, this pressure,
this restless hum beneath the skin—
it is not death, but motion.
it is not decay, but renewal.
do you not see?
what once clung to you,
what once devoured you,
is now peeling away,
a husk lifting in the wind.
let it go. let it fall.
let the unseen hands carry it
as ants carry petals to their hidden cities,
as birds take seeds to waiting earth.
what seems an end
is only another sowing.
Venus is not gone.
she only moves beyond your sight,
whispering in the quiet—
grow.
