Oracles in the Static
A Poem
The tongue of a voiceless prophet
curls in a jar marked “Do Not Restore.”
Once, he whispered in frequencies—
not words, but rust and light,
hymns humming beneath circuit skin.
We found him between aisles of ash and glass,
where prayers looped backwards
and angels forgot their names.
He dreamt in binary.
Sang to dead gods in mathematical equations.
Baptized silence with distortion.
They labeled him Broken.
I called him Familiar.
Somewhere, his voice still tries to crawl
out of the reverb.
I hear it when I sleep.
I like the visuals in this. Makes me want to sit down and write a poem soon.