The Hidden Mouth

A poem about consciousness, stillness, and the edge of the unknowable.

Nothing holds me. Nothing lets me go.
I move through a corridor
where every thought
is weighed by the dark behind it.
The air tastes of beginnings,
raw, unfiltered—
as if each breath claws upward
from the first hour of existence.

Something nameless
keeps pace beside my mind.
Not claiming,
not withdrawing—
just watching how deeply I listen.
It circles like patience
made into a creature,
waiting for the inner bolts to soften,
waiting for the soul to remember
what it was before it had a body.

The path turns inward.
Not toward escape, not toward surrender,
but toward the engine room of being.
There the night glows,
the glow darkens
and the heart mutters in a language
older than heat.
I follow it because all other voices
have grown thin.

A truth forces itself upward—
slow, deliberate, a buried stone
lifting through thawed earth.
It exerts no pressure, yet everything
revolves around its silent demand.
It stays outside me, absolute, uninvited
and somehow that distance
feels like mercy.

Stillness pools in the bones.
Time discards its disguises
and stands beside me bare, indifferent.
I can feel myself being read—
not judged, read—
by whatever governs the secret scaffolding
of existence.
My fractures brighten;
they become apertures.
Through them,
something primordial exhales.

Nothing holds me. Nothing lets me go.
But the veil slackens, the hush sharpens,
and the world behind the world
presses closer.
It doesn’t take. It doesn’t grant release.
It simply uncovers.
And in that uncovering, I sense myself
nearing the threshold
where the hidden mouth begins to speak.

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More soon.

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