The Cathedral of the Yawn

The slow arch that the mouth designs,
A sigh that stretches out, that bends,
It is not fatigue, nor sickness of weariness,
But a cathedral of an instant that transcends.
An ephemeral portal, taut flesh and air.

It opens vast, in an intimate hush,
The echo of an ancient need reverberates.
It seeks no ear, has neither sound nor rhythm,
Only a border between what is and the needy
Brief rest that the soul gently caresses.

A contagious temple of silent prayer,
A wave descends, breaking every barrier.
In its silence, an entire story lies,
The fragile promise of another spring,
A vast moment that time does not scorn.