The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 8/19

The breath between
By Lee-Anne Ford

A mind that walks the spaces ‘twixt it all,
The breath between the beats, the beats ‘neath breath.
You cast your laws, your walls, your hallowed halls,
Yet fail to see the rhythm underneath.
The western wind hums low—a hollow call,
A note that bends but will not break in time.
Autistic hands stretch wide, defy the thrall,
Yet still, you cage the ones who hear the chime.
But who else knows the base of eight, the sum,
Of atoms spun to music carved in spars?
Who counts the spaces, thumb to ghost of thumb,
And maps the void where voices echo stars?
Be deaf, be blind, be dumb—we rise in waves.
The edge of eight is ours—you cannot save.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.