The White Mantra of the Tube

In the cold vigil of absent rooms,
a thread of light, a subdued hum,
the neon tube sings its lamentations
or perhaps an unauthorized hymn.
Its frequency, invisible weave,
draws a time that knows no morning,
nor true night, just a flame
electric, a crystalline destiny.

It is not a breath, it is not an ancient beat,
but a fixed echo, an obstinate pulse
that feeds the air with atypical warmth,
a subtle order, undisclosed.
In the white void, its lament is a prayer
for the blind walls, the silent corners,
a perennial, sleepless spring
of excited atoms and of minutes.

A veil stretched between the said and the unsaid,
a soul to mercury, eternal and alone,
that illuminates the boundary and its flaw,
the suspended line, the word
never arrived. It is a boat stranded
in its own brilliance, an extinguished lighthouse
that guides without sea, without breath,
the motionless journey of every torment.