“unsigned horizon”

The horizon stays unsigned,

a gray span that won’t take a mark.

The raft holds by its own inward pull,

nothing formal keeping it together.

No place for the shore to grab hold,

no cut in the wood for a hook

to turn it toward the wharf.

When the cloud cover hardens into a wall,

and the air drops in its own weight,

the mind has to adjust to that dimness.

It learns to breathe underwater,

to keep a small counter‑current alive

while the world asks for a choice

it has no right to ask for.

The shore’s light keeps searching—

looking for a gap, a point to press—

and meets only a surface

that offers nothing back.

The sun rises needing no agreement,

moving in its own slow way,

a gold that holds even as dark pushes in—

gold behind the grey,

heat that stays when the rest goes cold,

steady enough to keep 

the raft in one piece.

.