crossing our horizon

The air is thick with something unnamed, 
a hush, a breath, a weight unclaimed. 
The sky hangs low, stitched with light, 
the earth hums softly, pulling tight. 

I count the echoes left behind, 
shadows of footsteps, stitched to time. 
The past is quiet, but never gone, 
a distant melody, an unsung song. 

The wind unravels at my back, 
tugging at threads, fraying the past. 
Not a voice, not a sign—just the space in between, 
where what was and what could be convene. 

I do not ask the stars for fate, 
they are indifferent, silent, great. 
No answer waits in the pressing dark, 
only the spark inside my heart. 

I move—not left, not right, but through, 
not toward an end, but something new. 
A breath, a step, a world untamed, 
and I, unmade, become unnamed.