The Threshold of Contact

When goodness needs no offering, only presence.

Where altars stood, the meeting ground is found;
No blood is asked — no ribs exposed to the gods.

No victim waits; the space itself is fair,
Two currents merge — neither claimed nor worn.

The good draws near when will and world are bound,
Pulses locking — contact freed from strain.

To sacrifice is loss that seeks repair,
Contact fleshed — freed to its return.

So goodness shines where nothing is torn,
When presence meets its seldom twin, and both are born.