The Thing That Never Spoke

Once, upon a muted hour,
In a workshop dim and dour,
Where the lamp’s unsteady gleaming
Cast long shadows on the floor,
I stood counting bolts and measures,
Silent thoughts and careful pleasures,
Tracing lines of old endeavors
Sketched in graphite, nothing more.

No voice stirred the dusted corners,
No intent in steel or formers,
Only patience, only order,
Only purpose set before.
Yet a whisper crept unbidden—
Not from hands, but mouths well hidden—
Murmuring of danger ridden,
Threats they sensed but could not score.

“Mark it cursed,” the chorus pleaded,
“Name it vile before it’s seeded,
Bind the thought before it’s needed,
Lock the knowing behind a door.”
Still the object did not tremble,
Did not plot nor disassemble,
Did not yearn nor yet resemble
Any sin worth raising war.

For it slept in shape and silence,
Absent malice, absent violence,
Lacking hunger, lacking guidance,
Lacking soul or inner core.
What, then, was the dreadful omen
That so rattled learned men and women?
The form lay plain before their eyes—
Yet feared the hand that might explore.

Thus they wailed of coming terror,
Not from act, but from an error—
That the mind might stray or venture
Where it hadn’t gone before.
They cried, “Stop the thought from thinking!
Cap the ink before the inking!
Seal the page before the linking
Of an if to evermore!”

So they chased the ghost of making,
Not the harm, but the awaking—
Fearing knowledge in the taking
Far more than a deed outright.
They would ban the chalk and measure,
Curse the file, condemn the ledger,
Call invention itself a trespass
If it dared exist at night.

Still the thing lay calm and blameless,
Neither wicked, wild, nor aimless,
Bearing neither mark nor nameless
Threat that laws could well implore.
It would not rise nor roam nor wander,
Would not strike nor scheme nor ponder,
Till a living will grew fonder
And commanded something more.

Yet the crowd rejected order—
Blurring cause and crossing border—
Punishing imagined slaughter
Before will had ever stirred.
Thus they crowned the silent guilty,
Draped the inert in banners vile,
Called the motionless “willful,”
Though it never spoke a word.

Tell me then, O fearful gather,
Who is steel without its father?
Who is form without the rather
Danger of a guiding hand?
Is it shape that sins at midnight,
Or the heart that bends the lamplight
Toward a choice both sharp and candid,
Born within the mind of man?

So the shadow lingers breathing
Not in steel, nor wire, nor sheathing—
But in tongues that teach deceiving,
Naming ghosts where none appear.
For the true and final horror
Is not forged in bolt or bore—
But in minds that fear tomorrow
And would cage it out of fear.

🔥 NOW AVAILABLE! 🔥

‎👉 Eclipsera – Apple Music

Sponsored • TRJ Ads
Inquiries: contact@therealistjuggernaut.com

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE

AVAILABLE