The Sixth Sense

The Sixth Sense

In the hush of midnight trains, a whisper calls my ear,
Not of wind or timetable, but the pulse that runs near.
A shimmer emerald between the long‑plotted lines,
Like a weather‑dissecting sigh in fogged East End brines.

There is a thread in every London street’s old tale,
The unspoken knowledge that lifts the common gale.
It tells us that the Thames, that ancient living thread,
Knows the way the foot‑steps of the Queen’s court have tread.

The feel of the soles on wet cobbles is honest:
A place where the instinct of the soul becomes glistening gracious.
It flickers beneath the red‑tube’s metallic lull,
An unseen but vibrant syllable of the city’s khull.

To think an eye that gleams beyond the ordinary sight,
A mind that’s tuned to the hush of a soft, fallow night,
Is to allow the planet to speak in phonemes bold,
The language of the ley‑lines and the prophets of cold.

At tea‑time, we sip and listen to the kettle’s sigh—
a subtle, gentle cue of the day’s hidden lullaby.
And at every scene when the voices in radio’s hums,
We feel the echo of something long past the drums.

The Sixth Sense is not mystic or a mere superstition;
It’s a way the soul recognises its trans‑human vision.
From the ages of mortar to the dawn of silicon,
It endures—an inner compass, as old as the wind.