He tried again…
He began where it began—
or where it didn’t—
the point where points unravel,
where beginnings
lose meaning,
and time forgets to tick.
He thought of silence,
not the kind between heartbeats,
but the kind before the first vibration,
before frequency
before form—
he wanted to spell that.
But letters betrayed him.
They’re too recent.
Too human.
He tried to say:
There was no “was.”
Only is.
Only always.
And not even that.
But the tongue is an animal.
It speaks in grunts.
The pen, a primitive tool—
scratching stone to mimic
the echo of an idea
already forgotten.
He wrote,
then crossed it out.
Wrote, then wept.
There was no line wide enough
to hold the curve of infinity.
No breath long enough
to say “forever” and mean it.
He tried metaphor:
The cosmos as a wound,
as a lover,
as a serpent biting its tail.
All lies.
Beautiful,
but false.
He sketched a structure—
six lines, then seven,
then none.
A stanza collapsed under the weight of
too much knowing.
The rhythm stumbled,
trying to follow
a dance with no music.
Sometimes a phrase almost fit:
“The dust of unborn stars,”
“The ache of the unimagined,”
but it never landed.
It hovered,
trembled,
then broke.
The poem was a graveyard
of perfect truths
never said.
He envied the ignorant.
Their words ring clear—
small, bright bells
unburdened by understanding.
He knew what the black holes whisper
to each other across lightless aeons.
He knew why entropy sings lullabies
to dying suns.
But every time he reached
for a line,
the meaning slipped its skin.
He thought of rhyme—
a cruel joke.
Of rhythm—
a rigged dance.
He tried chaos.
It felt like cheating.
He tried order.
It laughed in his face.
No one will read this and know.
Not really.
They’ll see a man fumbling
with language like wet clay
in a firestorm.
They’ll say,
“It’s a strange poem.”
And they’ll be right.
Because it isn’t one.
Not really.
Not even close.
“It all escapes.”