What Was Hidden Reads Itself, at Last, Into The Light. Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I allowed myself to believe in a secret
tucked beneath existence's thin skin—
a silence that answered to one word: Be—
from formlessness already alive in the void.
I saw it once: the first glance the Transcendent
cast toward his hidden self, and form arrived.

I told myself this would be another chapter,
one file among many.
I do not know
if I was meant to write it, or if the sentence
wrote me.
How many hidden things
wait with their small, patient names?
Here I am again—a command, not a commander,
the verb returned as law.
Free will—
a phrase I used like a tool—feels distant,
a shuttered room I cannot reopen.

So I gather my scattered edges each night,
stitch the self back in the dim hours.
Between imperative and pulse, I keep time.
Is surrender a blank page or a speech?
The world answers to a single syllable—
do I answer with a yes that is mine,
or with an echo rehearsed deep inside?

The hidden unmasks itself in small ways:
to hands that shape, to voices that quiet.
The Transcendent looks; something becomes.
I stay a witness with pocketed questions,
translating hush into the brittle language of day,
until silence lifts and what was hidden
reads itself, at last, into the light.

—MyKoul