Supernatural

Two points in the dark,
no distance,
just space in disguise.
Trace it, it ties.
What’s aligned
never breaks,
just divides.
No contact, just contact deferred
in a different dimension.
Silence was loud
every absence loaded with tension.

Felt it in phases
like waves
in the same unseen lane.
Nothing is vacant.
What’s waiting
is weight
with a name.
Twice it combusted.
Too much 
of the rush,
not enough
of the trust.
Fire without form
formally performs
like a perfect storm.

Third time returning with rhythm.
No longer burning just to burn.
Learning the current,
not urging the surge
but discerning
its turn.
Certain
it’s more than a pull.
This is pressure that sharpens the aim.
Gravity’s different
when distance is tested
and still feels the same.

We don’t define it.
We design it,
refine it,
align it
with function,
so neither is hiding
inside
the sum of assumption.
Call it whatever.
It’s better
than labels that limit the language,
This isn’t just raw passion.
It’s a pattern
demanding management.

If we slip,
let it flip
to the script
that we lived in before,
miss
every signal
and trigger the missile
that twists into war.
Something is different.
We listen,
We pivot.
We stay in the raw.
Own it in real time,
refuse old habits that directed the score.

There is a path
and the past
was proof of the pull in disguise.
Every collapse
was a map
that was asking us both to revise.
When we drift,
something shifts
like a force we don’t see but respect.
Higher powers step in
so our course is correct.

Not punishment, precision,
a nudge when we step out of phase.
The Supernatural straightens
what moves out of place.
Test after test,
not to break us,
but make us
aware of the haste.
It’s never
that we can’t weather
the storms whenever
they fuss.
See, the storms will never,
ever,
measure
up to us.

— Tami Jo Urban