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.
-
Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: June 29th, 2025 12:13
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: Priya Tomar
Offline)
Comments3
The beginning of this poem made me think of the angels alphabet and the Kabala (where shadows stitch their seams, does time collapse into a single vowel.) A great line. Dreams a shadowy place where reality is exchanged for wishes that are lived in another dimension. A very nice piece of work
Excellent write
Oh how I wish we could exchange reality for wishes, enjoyed the read
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.