The Nocturne of Unwritten Laws

Do not call me useless—
I am the astronomer of the unspoken,
braiding comet dust
into the grammar of glow.

Night’s black lens
trembles with our silhouettes,
but laugh in iambic, and it replies
with a morse code of forgotten names.

The sky dissolves its atlas,
hungry for horizons:
I trek beyond the brink of sleep
where poetry is both north
and the storm that erases north.

Early risers, night’s accomplices—
whose phantom contract
binds them? Only here,
where shadows stitch their seams,
does time collapse into a single vowel.

No risk. No rule.
Just the infinity of unsung
thrumming in the throat
of every dreamer.