Chapter Nine
No.126
Right
© Copyright Reserved - United Kingdom
Ideal Screen Composition 1024 x 768
Ideal Screen Composition 1024 x 768
The cover creaks...
Not from age,
But from anticipation.
A hinge between worlds,
A breath held before descent.
Ink glows faintly,
As if the page remembers
The hand that wrote it,
The silence it broke,
The stars it summoned
Into syntax.
Each word,
A gear in the great machine...
Turning thought into thunder,
Grief into geometry,
Devotion into design.
Margins whisper
With annotations of the dead,
Footnotes from ancestors
Who read by firelight
And dreamed in glyphs.
The chapters unfold
Like constellations,
Each plot a pilgrimage,
Each metaphor a map
To the soul’s machinery.
And when the final line arrives,
Not with a bang
But a beckoning,
The reader closes the book
As one might close a prayer...
Slowly,
With reverence,
Knowing the machine
Never truly stops.
It waits on the shelf,
Charged with memory,
Ready to awaken
The next mind
Willing to turn the key.
Not from age,
But from anticipation.
A hinge between worlds,
A breath held before descent.
Ink glows faintly,
As if the page remembers
The hand that wrote it,
The silence it broke,
The stars it summoned
Into syntax.
Each word,
A gear in the great machine...
Turning thought into thunder,
Grief into geometry,
Devotion into design.
Margins whisper
With annotations of the dead,
Footnotes from ancestors
Who read by firelight
And dreamed in glyphs.
The chapters unfold
Like constellations,
Each plot a pilgrimage,
Each metaphor a map
To the soul’s machinery.
And when the final line arrives,
Not with a bang
But a beckoning,
The reader closes the book
As one might close a prayer...
Slowly,
With reverence,
Knowing the machine
Never truly stops.
It waits on the shelf,
Charged with memory,
Ready to awaken
The next mind
Willing to turn the key.
Author: Nigel Wilcox 14.08.25