A Covenant Of No Becoming Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The cloud I called a prison
was only breath on glass—
my hands tracing borders drawn in fog.
The silken thread was never bondage,
but a seam awaiting unfastening.
Even the veil gave generously:
sifting the light, letting it arrive
as whisper, in its own time.

No altar sought my undoing;
no voice demanded I grow small.
This covenant predates all striving—
a remembrance held without merit.
What I once named an oath
was the body's quiet whisper,
whispered before I fractured the I.
Wholeness did not summon me—
I have always stood within its gates.

Almond blossoms fall upward,
rooting in the soil of my chest—
not a miracle, but a homecoming.
I mistook the bloom for a journey,
as if color traveled distances to arrive.
The orchard was ever here;
the barren branch already knew
the secret taste of fruit.

In another's eyes, I meet myself
unshattered.
Hues do not contend;
they whisper one another's names.
Contradiction was merely spectrum,
and truth required no throne.
The mirror craves no coherence—
it chants wholeness as a choir,
never a single note.

The stone antedates my breath;
my name was etched before speech.
Each step toward awakening
is only dust brushed from a flawless tablet.
Nothing is added; nothing earned.
The inscription endures, unchanged—
it is only my gaze that has finally opened.

— February,20,2026