No Number Seven

The floorboards are humming a digital hiss,
A gap in the sequence, a glitch in the bliss.
I’m stacking the vertebrae, pearly and white,
But one of the shadows took flight in the night.

One is a lonely, a thimble of lead,
Two is the whisperer under the bed.
Three is the triangle, sharp as a pin,
Four is the box where the silence lives in.

Five is the finger that points at the moon,
Six is the silver that’s tarnished too soon.
And then— The air turns to static, the gears start to grind,
A hole in the tapestry, deep in the mind.

There’s a ghost in the lattice, a missing degree,
A lock with no tumbler, a salt-crusted key.
I reach for the handle, I reach for the stair,
But the step that comes after is simply not there.

So I leap to the Eight, where the spiders are blue,
Counting the stitches of what’s left of you.
Nine is the velvet, Ten is the rust,
The world is a ledger of industrial dust.

But that hollow between them, that vacuum of space,
Is the shape of a memory, the curve of a face.
The universe blinked and the number fell through,
Now there’s six of the many, and eight of the few.

N.P.: “Tweeba – Fluke Remix” – sLEdger