Cathedral of Sky & Flame

I was the hush in the hall

before the symphony begins—

all potential,

all breath held,

a fire waiting in the dark

for someone to strike the match.

I lived in a fortress of restraint,

a pantry of silence

where nothing spoiled

because nothing was made.

I forgot how to feed myself.

Forgot how to stir from scratch.

How to take flour, salt,

and water from the earth

and make something warm enough to live in.

My words stayed sealed

like jars I never opened.

Preserved emotion.

Fear-sweetened quiet.

But silence,

left too long,

becomes its own kind of rot.

Then—

a flicker.

A crack.

A spark against the bone.

And suddenly,

light didn’t enter.

It rose from within.

It was flame,

hunger,

symphony.

I didn’t speak.

I boiled over.

And my hands remembered.

The recipe for wholeness

was never in her,

or them,

or the past.

It was in me—

the maker.

The chef.

The son of fire and patience.

Now I stir not to serve,

but to become.

I knead truth like dough—

slow, deliberate, necessary.

I cook like I speak now:

from scratch.

No pretense.

No shortcuts.

Only real ingredients

and open flame.

And my voice?

It simmers,

then sings.

My ribs ring like cast iron.

My chest is cathedral.

My breath smells like rosemary and smoke.

I don’t wait to be fed.

I create the feast.

Let them eat in silence

or not at all.

I’ve tasted the sacred.

I’ve built light from ash.

And I—

am not a man waiting anymore.

I’m the table,

the fire,

and the song.