Kiniun

 

He does not arrive
he claims the horizon.
The wind forgets its wandering
when his breath passes through it,
trees stiffen mid-whisper,
and dust, once arrogant in motion,
bows into stillness.
There is a weight to his silence
not emptiness,
but the crowded hush of command,
as though the earth itself
waits for permission to turn.
Muscle coils beneath a cloak of gold dusk,
each step a verdict,
each pause a question
no creature dares to answer wrongly.
He is not noise
noise is what follows him.
A trembling in marrow,
a ripple through the unseen threads
that stitch fear into flesh.
He does not chase dread
dread runs ahead,
announcing him in broken rhythms.
Even shadows hesitate
before touching him.
Even time, bold and tireless,
seems to shorten its stride
when he stands.
For power is not in the strike alone,
nor in the teeth of ending
it is in the knowing
that ending can arrive,
swift as a thought,
final as dusk.
And so the plains remember him
long after he has passed
in bent grass,
in held breath,
in the quiet confession of the living:
Some forces are not seen
only felt,
like thunder before it speaks.