The lights: clinical.
The feeling: mythic.
The moment grows a halo.
Even doubt turns ceremonial.
~
I watch thought
rise like sea-foam
and vanish
into the blue work
of mind.
~
my mind builds altars
to clarity
then sacrifices clarity
to the altar
~
in the cave of the psyche
every echo is a message
from a self
still alive
still waiting
~
I looked for truth
like a needle
in a myth
and found only
the thread
I was using
to sew myself together.
~
the feminine psyche is a forest
you enter slowly
until it recognises you
~
the wound became
a doorway
~
I am the shimmer
between two meanings
that refuse
to hold still.
~
Silver logic
with a bruise of snowdrop feeling.
You call it composure.
~
I read the air
like augury—
and it keeps spelling
your almost
~
the path isn’t linear
it’s lunar
it circles back
to the same pain
with more light in your hands
~
The self is a fever
that dreams itself well
and calls it healing
~
The mirror keeps asking
what I’ve done with her—
the girl I used to be.
I tell her she’s sleeping
inside a poem.
~
I built myself
from the ache upward—
each bone humming
the memory of before.
~
reality feels agreed-upon
until a dream
unthreads the seams
and the world
breathes wider
~
consciousness:
a syntax of noticing
that cannot stop
editing
~
DIANA MARIN 