C (it remains open)

Whether hard or soft, we indulge its discrepancies.

Joined with H, it sheds its skin and splits the groove between tongue and tooth,
pursing the lips. Shh, she says. Quiet, it hardens into a chimera.

Chain as sequence, as unity of tension and affinity, of continuity, cause and effect
binding the levels of existence; unbound, I am fettered.

Ever the charlatan, assuming other voices.

Or, C chooses a new life, unvoiced yet strong in issuance, chomping at the air,
standing firm, as companion, as augmenter, affirming existence.

From throwing stick to crescent, gimel to gamma, the line curled inward.

Shackled to others. Becoming.
The loop whorls on, mirrored to the incomplete.

Sometimes it lurks, occupying space, visible yet silent, an indictment of conspiracy.
Nitpicking scissors, a chorus of clicks in the chattering twilight.

How some roots remain: the invisible H in Italian. Softness, deferred.

Bearing no link to sight, it remains open.