Breaking the Fourth Wall

My poetry exists in the liminal spaces of thought,

where breath hovers between inhale and exhale,

where ideas flicker just before language finds them.

Like maybe I’ve heard that from someone, somewhere before—

or perhaps I dreamt it in another life,

whispered to me by shadows with silver tongues.

It reaches peaks that prose can’t touch,

twisting midair, bending around the light

to illuminate the hidden corners of the void.

It makes no sense,

yet somehow comprises enough cents

to make a million dollars in meaning.

It does and doesn’t,

is and isn’t—

just like us all,

half myth, half memory.