Mnemosyne’s Pulse

The Logos unfurls

from the page—

weaving

through the pores

of my psyche,

seeping

into marrow,

engraving psalms 

of rage

into bone.

I am not the artist—

merely a vessel

for what already is,

more ancient than the demiurge,

older 

than its molten breath.

The Logos stirs the clay;

pulsing it 

into form—

and I, 

hushed as embers,

witness 

the hidden birth:

a hymn, 

a scar,

a wail—

the raw footprint

of word

on flesh,

a breath

stirring

in Mnemosyne’s river-blood,

a heartbeat

blooming

in the womb.