The Architecture of the Yawn

A silent wave ascends, a weary echo,
unfolding from deep torpor’s sleep.
No voice yet, but a white promise,
of yielding that the vigil keeps.
A slow archway, the mouth prepares itself,
an ephemeral temple to an ancient breath.

Then the vast opening, a cathedral
where time bends and suspends its flight.
Dense silence, an ancestral void,
as deep air expands with light.
A secret tremor, without horizon’s end,
in the moist hollow where the beams divide.

And down dissolves the arch, soft and slow,
a sweet dizziness that closes tight.
A subtle shiver, a new wind to blow
that opens inertia in its might.
Return to here, but with skin made mute,
an ephemeral story in a dry rhyme.