“Not yet! But still… a stranger thing.”
Humming through the bellows lungs,
with a slow burn hungering the fever,
from your pucker’s ritual.
Waiting for the gravity of the charcoal
briquettes,to follow the scent down
dark hallways, where the bard reads,
the monjou, essay.
Tracing the psychology of your mind’s
chorography, dancing the bellows
with the crow, a low vibrato,
tasting the quill’s ink of your soul.
With dark sediments of the nightlight
where we are not yet, but always were,.
in silent drawers of the portmanteau.
“Not yet! But still… a stranger thing.”
There’s something wonderfully strange and hypnotic about this. It feels like wandering through someone’s subconscious, where language, memory, ritual, and thought keep folding into one another. I especially love “tasting the quill’s ink of your soul”—such a dark and beautiful image. And returning to “Not yet! But still… a stranger thing” makes the poem feel like a circle you never completely escape. Haunting and fascinating. 🖤
This poem took thought. I usually just scratch lines. Thank you, Lizz.
A haunting little echo of where two people are not yet, but somehow already were. A quiet tether in the dark, felt before it’s fully named. As always, Atticus, I enjoyed this write of yours. 🙂
Twernt nuffin but a ricochet bouncing from my mind’s tasket.