we lost chaos in the naming in the moment we called it wrong turned the current into warning so we wouldn’t feel it move along now the lines all hold their posture every edge knows where to stay breath gets folded into structure nothing drifting out of place in the center something tightening a quiet fist that won’t release ego counting, always measuring calling that a kind of peace it draws the line and calls it living marks the border, claims the ground holds the shape it keeps defending even as it’s breaking down but underneath, the pattern’s slipping not collapse a softer seam something prior to the gripping something older than the dream chaos isn’t tearing through us it’s the space before we frame before the edges ever knew us before we taught them how to name and ego trembles at the opening where the lines begin to blur where the silence isn’t holding anything it can refer still it tightens, still it claims what it cannot really own while chaos moves without a name and leaves the center overthrown
