Something looked through me
vast, deliberate,
older than fear,

and a voice arrived
beneath the place where thought begins.
Little vessel, it called me.

As though flesh were only a cup
held briefly beneath an ancient rain.
It asked questions

like it was counting years
and finding too many passed.
It listened.

Then it saw the wound.
Not a scar upon the flesh.
Something farther in

that has always ached
for a space
I did not recall.

And then it told me
what I have not stopped hearing;
you will come home.

When the presence lifted
like a hand withdrawn,
the world resumed its habit

of pretending to be understood.
But I am left with questions
drawing breath in the dark.


Penned by my hand on the 19th of Ero, in the year 1013 AF.