The Silent Gravity of the Imminent Word

There is a weight without form, a shadow without light,
that condenses where the thought has no voice.
It is not a sound that vibrates, nor sculpted syllable,
but a dense breath of soul, almost a life.

It is the lump of intention, the breath withheld,
before external air could ever corrupt it.
A seed of promise or a hidden venom,
in the suspended limbo, silent and inviolate.

And there it dwells, a bridge between being and saying,
with its silent gravity that drives one mad.
It waits to flower or to dissolve in nothingness,
echo of an interior world, still silent.