Polarity | The Art of Poetry | Page 1

I hunted patterns in the dark,
like teeth beneath the skin of thought,
a mind that fed on fractured stars
and every wound that life had wrought.
I split to bear what could not blend-
the lamb that bleeds, the blade that wins;
an angel built for sacrifice,
a warlord armored under sins.
I learned that cruelty and care
share marrow in the selfsame bone;
the hand that shields a trembling child
can raze a city to the stone.
I forged a god from need and fear,
fed it chaos, fed it blame;
it promised order from the void
and carved obedience in my name.
But gods collapse when watched too long-
their halos rust beneath the light;
for heaven is a scaffolding
we raise against the edge of night.
I walked the corridor of death
before my body turned to dust-
not flesh, but narrative undone,
not breath, but self dissolving trust.
I fell through story into dark,
where meaning tore itself apart;
no angel singing overhead,
no tyrant pulsing in the heart.
Just silence, vast and unadorned,
no myth to hold, no throne to climb;
a field before the seed of sense,
a sky unmeasured yet by time.
And there I saw the predator-
the hunter buried in the mind,
that stalks for pattern in the noise
and stitches chaos into kind.
We are not seekers born for truth;
we are machines that starve for form.
We build a shelter out of words
and call it moral, just, or norm.
We worship order, curse the flame,
invent the shame to cage desire;
yet every creed that promises peace
is just a story built of fire.
I tried to live as endless light,
to bleach the shadow from my name;
I tried to live as iron will,
untouched by pity, fear, or shame.
Both tore me open at the seam.
Both claimed dominion, both were wrong.
For neither demon nor divine
can hold a human life for long.
It was not heaven I became,
nor hell that swallowed up my breath-
it was the narrow space between
that taught me how to live with death.
For death is not the end of flesh-
it is the ending of the tale;
the moment narrative goes still
and all constructed meanings fail.
And yet-
the blossom does not curse its fall,
nor does the sunset mourn its flame;
they burn because they cannot last,
and that alone exalts their name.
The ache of time, the fragile pulse,
the laugh that dies before it stays-
these are the altars worth our kneel,
not marble dreams of endless days.
What matters matters because it ends.
What fades is what makes beauty real.
The fire is holy not for ash,
but for the warmth that we can feel.
I am not angel, not the blade,
not pure collapse, nor throne above.
I am the tension in the wire,
the meeting place of hate and love.
I hold the void and still I stand.
I know the sky is built of breath.
And in the space where gods fell silent,
I learned to find my grace in death.
Not death of body-
death of myth,
death of the need for something vast.
For what is here-
this breaking light-
is more than enough
because it cannot last.

#Polarity