In the bone-still pause of morning frost,
I mouth myself into the air’s steam,
not words, but shapes from the gut.
A furrow ploughed in the silence,
I test its grip, the yielding soil,
its syllables strong, knotted, coarse—
what the throat knows before language.
This is how we turn to light,
how the unsaid finds its own tether,
braiding thoughts tight into breath,
each moment hoisting its grain skyward.
Translation: the tongue’s hushed bankruptcy,
a dialect of palms, clavicle, chest.
Underneath, the loam holds its script,
a damp hymn, the skin of seeds.
We voice it: the unborn, the rooted.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 10th, 2025 05:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
I think that this poem one must feel. It erupts from inside like a bursting seed and sprouts out the mouth flowering into self perceived meaning in a gutteral burp. Your use of varied visceral images and metaphor put this seed in me. Lovely a fave
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback and support
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.