The Brief Cathedral of the Yawn

Born from a shadow, an echo without form,
a deep tremor in the silence,
that stretches the air before it wakes
and changes time into an immense minute.
It is not fatigue, nor acute need,
but the slow opening of an arcane vault,
where the instant becomes a silent throat.

Here, oxygen dances in slow spirals,
geometries of void and awakening,
and every fiber stretched in a languor,
sings a unique and crimson chord.
An ancient arch, erected without stone,
that hosts nothingness and then lets it go,
before the face knows how to return.

And when the edge yields, slowly, slowly,
and its dome closes and fades away,
a thin trace remains upon the hand,
a warm breath that no longer makes mist.
An ephemeral temple, without altars,
that vanishes in the darkness of a breath,
leaving only memory upon the palate.