The Uncreated Spark Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Fierce winds press against the door—
not air, but something colder, inward.
I sit beneath a hard, unmoving gaze
where even the stars seem thinned and distant,
dimmed behind a sky that will not speak.

How still this ancient room has become.
The fire I kept bends low and flickers—
its tongue no longer mine to command.
It curls through the brittle pages of my names,
blackening the edges of what I believed,
until the script gives way to ash.

Life folds in my hands like an old map,
creased along the routes I once trusted.
I stand at the shore and watch them go:
Zeal, Ideal, Love, and Friendship—
hull after hull slipping past the fog.

Even the Word that once moved with my breath
has gone quiet beyond the waterline.
What filled all things now feels far off,
like heat leaving a stone at dusk.

Still, under this held and frozen ground,
something green keeps its counsel.
The garden does not reach or remember—
it waits, roots deep in a patience
that asks nothing of the season.

Then, without sign or summoning,
rain falls from an empty sky.
No sound of it, no visible hand—
only the slow opening of something living.

No page, no voice to follow—
yet I am turned, as if by reading.
The meaning enters without a path,
settling where thought cannot hold it.

And there, where neither flame nor frost remains,
something quiet begins again—
not shaped, not sought, not claimed.
The watcher loosens, the fire is gone,
and in the deep, unguarded stillness,
Loss and Renewal breathe the same air.

— MyKoul