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“The Poet Between Worlds”

He wrote of gods with trembling ink,

their voices caught in almond trees,

their footsteps echoing through

wine-slick hills and grief-bright skies.

He dreamed a Greece

that never was and called it home—

built temples of language from shards of silence.

They say he cracked— not under madness,

but from holding too much light

with hands made for this earth.

He spoke a tongue we’re still learning to hear:

half river, half hymn, spelled in thunder and wildflower.

Now, he waits by the riverbank—

not ancient, not forgotten—

watching us scroll and hurry

past the sacred in ordinary things.

But sometimes a breeze

will lift the curtain,

and there he is—

the fire still flickering

in the hollows of our breath.