unhinged

Born in six‑seven,
the poet carries a number
like a badge, a cipher,
a code trolling beneath skin.

The scroll unrolls—
papyrus, parchment, pixel,
each surface a corridor
where words march, then fade.

At the hinge he pauses:
between ink and screen,
between chant and silence,
between belonging and drift.

The scroll resists completion—
always more to read,
always more to forget,
its edge curling back on itself.

So he walks the seam,
poet of six‑seven,
bearing the hinge as compass,
and in the reel of 6‑7, viral chant,
he is clear for the next message.

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