The Borderland

In the hush before the sermon starts, where incense curls like ghosted doubt, a line is drawn not on the maps, but in the marrow, worn throughout.

Belief—first born of flame and breath, a whisper felt before it's heard, soft as the hush that follows death, sharp as a blade inside a word.

It danced in groves, it walked with stars, it sang through caves in ancient fire, no name, no chains, no saints, no scars, just awe, and ache, and fierce desire.

But gather wonder, hold it tight, give it a name, a rule, a crown— and wonder, once a wingéd flight, becomes a throne that holds you down.

So temples rise on shifting sand, each stone a creed, each step a law; the faith that built with open hands now guards the gate with sharpened jaw.

They call it sacred—yes, and still, each sacred word turns scaffold-fast, for once you cage the boundless will, you write the future with the past.

See how the prayer turns into power, the chant becomes a marching beat, belief, that once made tyrants cower, now carves their names in judgment’s seat.

But somewhere—yes—beyond the walls, where silence blooms and names dissolve, a truth still waits, unsung, uncalled, a riddle asked with no resolve.

So walk the border, bare and slow, feel every stone, each breath, each bind; belief must move, must break, must grow— or rot, as all things dead confined.