until the cosmos speaks

A shimmering constellation behind the Eyes
throbs in the temples, a slow and heavy rhythm
—not an ailment, but a cosmos waking up.

Headache: that’s what they call 
the pressure of existence,
that insistent sense of language 
pushing through the skull.

It is the poetic inevitability of the word,
a solar system burning in grey matter,
each pulse an asteroid, a path
for letters that have nowhere else to go.

Star‑patterns of pure pressure tighten,
a milky way of unspoken lines behind the eye.
The brain is too small for the infinity of being,
so the universe cracks open in glorious pain.

You seek the dark, 
the quiet, the empty,
but inside, the constellation 
keeps shining: existence insisting, 
star after star, until the cosmos speaks 
and silence breaks.

.