The Silent Architecture of the Yawn

It is not a sound that vibrates, nor a wind that passes by,
but an unseen workshop stretching slow,
in the sudden void when the lid descends.
It is a wave of stillness, a plan untold.

A dome of air that lifts and curves,
drawing spirals of an inner echo,
while time itself bends, silent, unbound,
in the endless moment of quiet profound.

Then the weave dissolves, like mist before the sun,
and only the soft breath stays, a gentle trace
of an ephemeral structure the body cannot shun,
to recall, yet the soul holds sacred grace.