The Corridors Of The Heart Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I walk the corridors of my heart,
where ceilings brush the sky of majesty,
and hours have long forgotten
that hands were ever invented.

Beneath the shadow of domes and arches,
the watchman's footsteps still echo—
through radiant days
and the dark supplications of night—
while every shadow
inscribes its name
upon the forehead of time.

Doors open
without a whisper.
Chambers woven
from sacred silence
with threads of light.

A chamber of love.
A chamber of light.
A chamber of music.
A chamber of remembrance—
where every victory over the self
is recorded
in an unwritten book.

A chamber
that maps the hidden stations
of consciousness,
where every ascent
is also a return,
and every return
a profound awakening.

I walk beyond doubt and hesitation,
my steps bold and unwavering,
though their whispers
cling to my feet.
Yet a deep melody emerges—
my pulse,
my drum,
that eternal rhythm
remembering
all that fear can never learn.
And fear,
hearing that ancient music,
falls silent.

Joy blazes like a hidden flame,
awakening the twilight of evening,
turning the very bones
of these living corridors
into gold.

Grief remains,
not as an enemy,
but like a silent emperor,
whose brow is crowned
with the cool stars of night,
whose gaze
is older than sorrow itself,
older even
than memory.

Further inward,
the corridors grow stranger.
Walls abandon
their certainty.
Angles melt.
Paths
rearrange themselves
like living thought.
Ideas bloom
like self-winding vines,
reshaping the architecture
I once believed
was mine to command.

Mirrors ripple.
Within each
is a face I have ever worn—
some radiant,
some weathered by time,
some shattered,
and some
crowned with unseen light.
Yet every reflection
breathes the same secret:
one single verse,
written before time
in the eternal ink
of Divine Remembrance.

In the innermost chamber,
everything becomes still.
A silent effulgence—
neither source nor shadow.
The throne of perfect stillness,
where rebellious winds
remember their origin
and become breath again.

There,
my soul
rises upon its own horizon—
not soaring toward height,
but awakening
to the sovereignty
it had never truly lost.

When I return
to the first corridor,
no medal of victory
rests in my hand—
only a map,
already inscribed
within the sanctuary of my heart.

Every closed door
opens without effort.
Every storm
bows its head
like a humbled wind
before an unseen Presence.

Those corridors
where oblivion once dwelt
now resonate
with the spontaneous melody
of Divine Remembrance.

For this kingdom
was never built,
nor shall it ever
need rebuilding.
It simply stands—
eternal,
hidden within the heart,
beyond the conjecture
of being and non-being,
beyond decay,
far beyond
the measure of time.

—MyKoul