Unheard, Therefore Infinite

I spoke where silence was born, beneath the weightless cathedral of nothing. My voice uncoiled a rumble swallowed by eternity’s jaw. Every word was a wound against forever, and still, I asked. Still, I asked. What name does absence answer to? What ear can bear the sound of being? To ask the endless is to bleed without return a prayer cast into form, undone before it learns its shape. The void does not deny it only watches, patient, infinite, unmade. Stars dissolved into thoughtless geometry, their light too tired to mean. The horizon folded inward, devouring its own horizon. I stood inside the repetition of a question that could never end and called it hope. If meaning is distance, then I am already home. To ask the endless is to burn for comprehension a candle lit in vacuum around a wordless god. No answer came only the distortion of everything pretending to be still. There was no sound, only measure. No truth, only ratio. And somewhere between the numbers, a whisper not a voice, but the idea of one, asking me what I had hoped to find. To ask the endless is to learn why stars are silent. Every prayer returns as dust, every truth dissolves to awe. I never wanted answers only proof that something heard me fall.