Sonnet of Vertigo

I am but vertigo, and nothing more,

for all is spin within, no ground, no frame.

A chaos born with neither cause nor aim,

a drifting soul with no clear shore or door.

The vertigo in me begins to rise,

like wind that heaves the ocean toward the skies,

or like the sun on glaciers, cold and bright—

a mirror cast from vulgar, fractured light.

I am the echo of a voice long gone,

the flesh that walks without a dream to keep,

a broken thread between the dusk and dawn.

Yet still I move, though tremble in the deep—

a spiral made of ruin, pressed upon,

but breathing still, where silence dares to sleep.