IMAGINATIVE ARCHITECTURE

You let me build worlds
where emotions find a dwelling,
where the invisible
learns the shape of a body.

A thought becomes a river.
A wound becomes a garden.
An abstract idea—
given breath,
steps into the light
as transformation.

I question the inherited names
carved too deeply into stone—

not apple,
not gold,
not sin’s bright lie—

but the unnamed fruit
beneath the story,
the mystery still bleeding
from the first bite.

In NOCTURNE, B. 49,
the architecture changes.

There, my strength is not thunder
but the sacred weight of silence.

No words left—

only knees in the frost,

only the soul
standing before a sky
that needs no signature.

The poet does not create the world.

The poet opens the door
and lets the unseen
enter.

:: 07.09.2026 ::