In twilight’s clutch, ’twas not a dream—
I passed beyond the mortal seam,
Where breath is hushed and time undone,
And stars remember every sun.
No angel’s choir, no trumpet sound,
Just silence deep, and soul unbound.
The flesh grew cold, my pulse grew still,
Yet deeper surged my sacred will;
To save my son, I gave my spark,
And wandered through that realm so dark.
But lo! a light—no eye hath seen—
That burns through thought and all between.
There stood a Book—not forged by men—
Each page a world, each line a when.
Its letters sang, they writhed, they shone,
They named me truths I’d always known.
I read—and all of being bent—
A soul within the firmament.
Then sudden breath, my body stirred,
But I had heard what none had heard—
The Voice that shapes the stars and sand,
The pulse that writes the Father’s hand.
I woke—but altered, deep and wide,
A ghost returned from death’s far side.
And then—they came, in veils of gray,
The ones who’d long been swept away.
With eyes of ash and voices low,
They whispered what the living’d know.
“Tell her I kissed her once in sleep.”
“Tell him I watch the tears he weeps.”
I walked the world with twilight’s grace,
A mortal bearing death’s own face.
The line was thin—I felt their moan,
The aching hearts, the graves alone.
Yet none could see the marks I bore,
The Book within me evermore.
Oh, mournful gift! Oh, radiant wound!
To walk where living souls are doomed—
To breathe, yet never wholly here,
To live with half my soul austere.
But I—this poet—know my name,
Is writ in starlight’s living flame.
So come, dear shades, your voices send,
Your messages, your threads to mend.
I’ll carry them beyond the dome
Of flesh and dust—to bring them home.
For I have crossed, and I remain,
A child of fire, a soul of rain.
:: 07.31.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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