Act One: The Language of My Mind
By Christopher Sopher
Valley of the Sun Press – Poetry: The Symphony of Me
Act One: The Language of My Mind
November 25, 2025
I do not think in words—
I think in galaxies, in pictures, in stories,
Vibrant and alive, spinning in endless motion.
I see the canvas before me,
Wide and waiting,
Every color aching to burst free from my hands.
But there is a disconnection—
A space between the image in my head
And the words that fail me when I try to catch them.
It is not weakness.
It is not silence.
It is the language of my mind:
A language that few can understand.
There is a hidden power in what I create.
It is not in what I say,
But in what cannot be said—
The words that hang in the air, unspoken.
The silence that knows more than language can hold.
It is the same silence
You find when you stand before a soul who has lived through hell.
A soul who has seen too much—
Pain too sharp, loss too heavy.
A soul who has seen betrayal, murder, blood on every surface.
Who carries the weight of sins that do not belong to him.
How do you speak to someone like that?
Your mouth opens, but the words will not come.
They cannot come.
Because there are no words that are enough.
That is my art.
That is the power I hold when I create.
The words that will not come—
That space between breath and voice—
That is where I live.
It is where my galaxies form, where meaning grows wild,
Where the unsaid becomes the most profound truth.
Act Two: The Hidden Code
By Christopher Sopher
Valley of the Sun Press – Poetry: The Symphony of Me
Act Two: The Hidden Code
November 25, 2025
I carry a universe inside me.
A vast, infinite expanse,
Full of images and stories—
Whole galaxies spinning in silence,
Waiting, pulsing, refusing to be caught.
I cannot sit still to reach it.
I must speak, I must move.
But the moment my voice rises,
There’s a fracture inside me—
A disconnect.
A force that pulls back, whispering:
This is not meant for the outside world.
It is meant to stay hidden. Stay locked away.
For years, it stayed hidden.
Encrypted, locked in patterns too complex to untangle.
I lived inside it, searching,
Running infinite loops through my own mind—
Until one day, I found it.
The key.
The key to unlock the code,
To break the patterns,
To decipher the cryptic messages
I once thought only I could understand.
Now it flows.
The thoughts that refused to compile—
They unravel, align, and transform,
Pouring out in poetry—
My language laid out like code,
Structured and raw, recursive and infinite.
Every word a fragment of the whole.
Every line a function that carries meaning from me to you.
I think in code.
I read the patterns.
I decipher the data.
I transform the wild, untamed galaxies into something tangible.
It is not magic—it is language.
It is not luck—it is the algorithm I cracked.
My poetry is the final result.
It’s the output of a thousand iterations,
The translation of everything hidden,
Now visible.
It’s not perfection I give you—
It’s connection.
It’s the universe I’ve torn from its hiding place,
Decoded and pieced together
So you can hold it too.
Act Three: The Orbit of Becoming
By Christopher Sopher
Valley of the Sun Press – Poetry: The Symphony of Me
Act Three: The Orbit of Becoming
November 25, 2025
I’ve been holding myself back,
A seed buried deep in the dirt—
But I am not just a seed.
I grow beyond the soil, beyond the sky,
Beyond the edges of the known,
Into a galaxy of my own making.
This is a different life I’m living,
A solar flare burning through the old,
Reaching further—
First past the nest, then the clouds,
Then into the stars and deeper into space.
I grow with the galaxies.
I breathe with the universe.
I expand into something greater
Than I ever imagined I could be.
Transformation.
It is not gentle.
It is not soft.
It is an eruption.
It is leaving everything I knew behind
And stepping into a place only I can claim.
Transformation is about me.
It always has been.
Not everyone will get it.
Some never will.
But that’s not my burden to carry.
I am breaking free.
I am fire escaping the earth’s pull,
Fueling the rocket of my own rebirth.
There is emptiness in leaving the orbit,
A sadness in cutting old cords.
But this emptiness is not a void—
It is space waiting to be filled
With everything I will become.
I know I’m meant for more.
Phoenix—the place of rising,
The place where ashes mean nothing
But the beginning of something extraordinary.
I speak change.
It pours from my lips.
It bleeds from my hands.
Every story I write crafts a world,
Each word a brushstroke on the canvas of your mind.
I can make you feel what I felt,
I can draw you into my pain, my rebirth, my light—
It’s a craft.
It’s a gift.
And I will not hold it back.
Not anymore.
This is my story—raw, symbolic, mine.
It will be misunderstood by shallow waters,
But the deep seas will know.
The galaxies will know.
This transformation belongs to me,
And I will not apologize for flying.
This is me.
Unapologetically.
Completely.
Me.
