Through the Aperture
Silent Seeker
0212.2025
(She listens at the door the world forgot to open.)
I don’t bend the knee to gods men carved,
nor veil myself in prayers asking for help.
I am the earthbound mystic—
the “died in my time of need” mystic—
and death was not the door they say it is.
Oh light without a face!!
Oh field of hush that breathed through every star!!
That seam in time that kissed my bliss—
where love was all that lived—
never was it shaped by hands,
but boundless,
formless,
everything
unending.
I know not what soul is made of,
nor if it bleeds,
or if it’s just the fire in our bodies that speaks.
But I have felt an echo hum through bone,
a filament of thought that would not break,
a thread of self unspooling into dark:
I have known this all encompassing
most exultant and tender, love.
No gate, no reckoning, no sacred scroll—
only the awe,
and weightlessness of something vast
that knew me as a mother knows her child.
I carry no faith in heaven nor its sin,
but believe we choose not to ascend,
to learn the art of staying —
of sitting in the wreckage without shame.
of hearing one’s own name inside the wind.
We are the forest’s breath, the wolf’s red cry.
We carry stone and starlight in our skin.
The marrow of the planet and its cradle sings in us like a lullaby calling us home—
we are not guests here.
We are what the Earth
has dreamed, and bruised, and birthed again and again in its ash —
(in the ashes of its beginnings.)
When I was five,
a woman clothed in gold
came to me holding a child —
no sacred word was spoken—
no other eyes could see.
She watched me,
her eyes like resting starlight
as if she’d come from where I could not go.
And the unlearned churches, saints, or myths—
but for her whom I remembered with reverence,
but for her whom I remember
because she is mine -
but for her who is
the most divine mystery.
I’ve been a lantern others held in fog.
I’ve held the sorrow of the wounded
while their blood sang in cries.
They called me kind,
then left me with their ghosts.
(For a moment, I believed
something had forsaken me.)
But I am not a harbor
waiting at a shore that trembles,
I am love’s understanding that endures.
I am the salt stinging the open cut
that cauterizes what won’t learn heal.
My art is how I try to bless the broken world.
My silence is not absence—but it’s design.
What I create is scripture made of scar,
a mirror turned to those who would not see.
I walk beside noise and don’t speak.
I fast to hear the difference in light.
There is no longing for praise,
or for relief—
only to know what waits beneath the ache.
The Earth has given all we’ll ever need
to live, to die,
to reach the breath of her stars.
But we are hurried,
blind,
and full of teeth.
We consume what teaches us how to live.
I am not peaceful in the way they want.
I am not soft.
I am the quiet blade
telling the truth
and not ask for permission.
I have survived this curse,
and its enlightenment.
I know love does not depend on being held.
I do not know if any god exists—
but I have seen what waits
when we lay still.
It was not judgment.
It was not a throne.
It was the hush
before the world begins.
It was the yes
of all other names.
m.c.f.
❦
