“unsigned horizon”
The horizon stays unsigned,
a gray span that won’t take a mark.
The raft holds by its own inward pull,
nothing formal keeping it together.
No place for the shore to grab hold,
no cut in the wood for a hook
to turn it toward the wharf.
When the cloud cover hardens into a wall,
and the air drops in its own weight,
the mind has to adjust to that dimness.
It learns to breathe underwater,
to keep a small counter‑current alive
while the world asks for a choice
it has no right to ask for.
The shore’s light keeps searching—
looking for a gap, a point to press—
and meets only a surface
that offers nothing back.
The sun rises needing no agreement,
moving in its own slow way,
a gold that holds even as dark pushes in—
gold behind the grey,
heat that stays when the rest goes cold,
steady enough to keep
the raft in one piece.
.
