We are not vapor, nor pale phantoms spun

   from the black vaults of a hollow mind,

We are the heavy flint, the friction won

   where the dark void and the raw marrow wind.

 Frequencies of a Moment 

An ether choked with static, wide and cold,

   where the great howling disconnect takes root.

Here, our sharp grief is proof of what we hold:

   a lightning-flash, a fury absolute.

We drift as broken radios  from the deep,

   shattered by heaven, barely tuned to speak,

Tasting the dust where lonely signals creep

    to find the one embrace our spirits seek.

“What drove us there was curiosity—

      the passion for a brief, transcendent spark,

          to catch the signal in the dark.”

Architecture of the Arrival

THE VOID ] ──> THE SIGNAL ] ──> THE UNURBAN CAFE ] ──>[ SONGBIRDS ]

We map the blank terrain, we reconnoiter,

   redrafting shiny, newborn shapes of song.

We are the thieves of light who dared to loiter

   where chaos and the crumbled codes belong.

Into the arms of the Unurban cafe,

   we stumble through the doors, a quickening grace,

Where magical Sunday Songbirds perch and play,

   each performer unfreezing a special place

They throat the static, warp the velvet maze,

   with feathers spun of frequency and fire,

With notes that pull us from the haze

   from dark abyss to higher.

The Stolen Transit

A wry, knowing smile breaks the bitter cold,

   a sudden wildfire burning in the chest.

The week stretches long, but the hands still hold

   the stolen past that grants no easy rest.

We ride the magic and celestial line

   through grit and neon, beautiful and frayed—

This borrowed transit, desperate and divine,

   will bear us till the Sunday dreams are laid.