The wound through which God sees Himself
I do not understand infinity,
but I feel it flowing through me,
like a river that asks no questions,
only carves the banks of my being,
slowly, until there is nothing left of me.
I write not to explain,
but to gather fragments of silence
I cannot hold in my hands.
Each word is a crack
through which God tries to see Himself,
but all He sees are shadows—
His own, mine,
stretched across the face of a weeping world.
I do not know where I am going,
but the road feels me.
Under my steps, time splinters,
and between my ribs, something stirs,
something that does not belong to me.
Perhaps an echo of a forgotten dream,
perhaps the wound through which the divine breathes.
I feel my skin like paper,
crumpled by unseen hands,
writing and rewriting
the story of a silent God.
I pull each word from my flesh,
lay it on the table of time,
and watch as pain blooms from it.
But what am I,
if not a broken mirror?
Through me, light passes and fractures.
Through me, infinity screams its lack of edges.
And all I can do is write—
not to understand,
but to survive
this silent song of the universe.
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