I am ethereal —
neither here, nor there.
A trembling breath between the worlds,
a pulse that stirs but leaves no air.
I drift —
not lost, not found,
but held
in a seam between the sound.
A land clothed in fleece, in hush,
a realm of wool and whispered blush;
where peace hums low,
and sorrow sleeps,
and memory dissolves in dreamless deeps.
The moon —
neither waxing nor waning —
sits in stillness,
in soft, silent feigning.
The sun, once fierce,
was ensnared by a fisherman's line,
drawn from the sky
into nets of brine.
He rests by the shore,
a good man, unstained —
while the mist creeps cold,
and the silence is strained.
Yet I —
I have been summoned,
I have been tried,
for the gravest crime,
the thought unsanctified.
Not theft, not blood,
but the deeper fall:
the crime of thinking,
before the call.
I am ethereal.
I am the crime.
I am the dream before its time.