Unhinged Poem by Edith Niemeyer

UNHINGED

Unhinged....

leads the way.

Not opened—
not closed—

loosed.

Stoned hinges
touchless turn
upon reveals' nothingness,

as though the door
remembered movement
long after
movement forgot the door.

What waits
beyond the unhinged?

A footstep....

whose?

Mine—
or something
coming?

A foothold....

gained—

but by whom?

Death
upon me,

or I
upon Death?

A hand....

given.

A hand....

taken.

And somewhere
betwixt the two
lies consent's
unanswered question—

Did I reach?

Was I reached for?

Or did Death's grasp
close around
the difference?

Step back....

Life?

Step forward....

Death?

Nay—

direction
knows nothing
of intention.

For one may step backward
toward living,

and another
forward
only to discover

they have not moved
at all.

There is an interval....

small.

Smaller.

Smaller still.

Between
heartbeat
and heartbeat,

footstep
and foothold,

given
and taken,

I am

and

I was.

Perhaps Death
dwells not
upon either side—

perhaps Death
is the interval.

The immeasurable
difference

between.

And there—

at Death's grasp—

thoughts come.

Not orderly.

Not summoned.

They tangle.

Touch
without touching.

Voices
without sound.

Faces
without presence.

Echoes
boomerang back
from corridors
already gone.

Souls' Reaper
waits....

or perhaps

I wait.

For what comes
be thoughts
when thought itself
begins loosening
from its hinge?

Body from soul.

Soul from certainty.

Certainty from knowing.

Knowing from name.

Name from....

.....

Just—

Unhinged.

Yet not
untangled.

There lies
the cruelty.

For that which loosens
does not necessarily
let go.

Love clings.

Memory threads.

Regret knots.

Longing winds itself
around
the smallest filament
still fastened
to was.

Death toils
at every strand.

One breaks.

Another.

Another....

Yet something
resists.

Not flesh.

Not breath.

Not even
heartbeat.

Something
without substance
holds its foothold.

Tangible
becomes intangible.

Intangible
reaches back
as though
it once had hands.

And the hand
I thought
Death had taken....

perhaps

was the hand
I gave.

Step forward.

Step back.

What difference
the interval

when both
stand upon
the same threshold?

Death's end
is near.

The bell
begins its toll.

For one.

For another.

For kings.

For beggars.

For remembered.

For forgotten.

Death tolls
for ALL.

Yet—

what waits
beyond
the unhinged?

No answer
turns the stone.

No hand
moves the hinge.

No voice
returns
from nothingness
to name it.

Only this—

what was hinged
becomes loosed.

What was certain
becomes question.

What was separate
becomes tangled.

And what I feared
was Death
taking hold....

may have been

the final foothold
of Life

refusing
to release

me.

Unhinged....

leads the way.

But never tells

where.

☙🪶〰︎ Original Work — Words & Lyrics © Edith Lynn Niemeyer 〰︎🖋️❧
🎶 Music & Vocals created with Suno AI
✨ Creative collaboration with Serenity