I don’t wish for you
to fade like footprints in the tide,
to vanish like whispers in the wind,
or drift away like a ghost at dawn.

I don’t want to forget.
I want to sense you—even from afar,
to feel the hush of your presence near,
to know your soul
still dances with mine
in quiet, invisible threads
that time cannot sever.

We are not survivors.
we are residue.

the soot that lingers
on collapse's last tongue.

entropy's loiterers—
spiteful, unfinished.
neurons in feedback.
systems with no gods.

the architects left
when the scaffolds imploded.
we cradle their blueprints
like scripture in ash.

rebuild?
with what breath?
with what myth?
our dreams are famine-shaped.

nirvana is a severance package.
emptiness sold
in velvet robes.
a silence that never asked
about wreckage.

so we sharpen our vowels.
scribe ruin in elegy.
chant hymns for dead logics.
leave witness marks
in the marrow of this glitch.

we were not chosen.
we remained.

In a world of fake
I‘ll still be true
Through my heart ache
And I’m still blue
And love is love
And is never ending
From low to above
And now Im forgetting
The way you felt
In my arms
“Play the cards your dealt”
But when I do I hear alarms

Aggressive, arrogant, and abusive,
with aggravation and absence,
and accidents that alarm.

Broken, beating, black and blue,
with bruises and blades,
and burns that blister.

Cold, cancelled, and captive,
with clashes and chills,
and contagiousness that corrupts.

What More

      In the name of love he came
The words written are true
In the name of love he came
He came for me and you

In the name of love he came
To the people himself he revealed
In the name of love he came
He taught and he healed

In the name of love he came
He even raised Lazarus from the dead
In the name of love he came
In the Bible his words are written in red

In the name of love he came
He fed the people and he prayed
In the name of love he came
And yet he was betrayed

In the name of love he came
Accepting his gift is to be purified
In the name of love he came
Love is the reason he was crucified

In the name of love he came
Yet still some use the choice to ignore
In the name of love he came
I say in the name of love What More

Written By:Charles Kean
06/07/2025

I used to chase dreams like helium balloons
Now I can't get out of bed till after noon
I have found my infliction is my own,
Sometimes, the seeds will never grow.

Battling disease while I cannot feel alive,
I miss the thrills of a cliff dare of a dive
Hitting the water from way up so high
Vision blurred from salty water in my eyes.

I feel that shadow that will bring me death,
every time I heave with my heavy breathes
I never learnt to battle demons past my wall
And the bricks they used to smash me over-all.

The people I've hurt are more demons in my head,
It won't be long until these tyres will lose the tread.

Amour, Amour, donne-moi paix ou trêve,
Ou bien retire, et d'un garrot plus fort
Tranche ma vie et m'avance la mort :
Douce est la mort qui vient subite et brève.

Soit que le jour ou se couche ou se lève,
Je sens toujours un penser qui me mord,
Et malheureux en si heureux effort,
Me fait la guerre et mes peine rengrèvent (1).

Que dois-je faire ? Amour me fait errer
Si hautement, que je n'ose espérer
De mon salut que la désespérance.

Puis qu'Amour donc ne me veut secourir,
Pour me défende il me plaît de mourir,
Et par la mort trouver ma délivrance.


1. Rengrève signifie s'aggrave.

I'm addicted
To sadness

Music is better
When it makes me cry

Starring at the ceiling is better
When I hope I won't get up

Parties are more fun
When I hide my emotions

Dressing up is more exciting
When I cover my scars

Being alive is better
When I cut myself

I wish I could be happy
But I can't
So I'd rather suffer
Than feel nothing at all

Everyday
New ways
Better days
Helpful ways
Much too say
Heat is on

He is tall with limbs that stretch like  
         roots,
     Eyes and teeth and ears sing joy
  ‘What does love feel like?’
He asked my friend
Her nose twitches, her ears spike up
Like a bunny offered a carrot
  ‘Like a deep breath in
       Like walking through the door,
           And dropping your bags.
              You're home.’
                  Exhale
She smiles so bright, I'm sure
she has swallowed the sun
   ‘What does love feel like?’
He asks me
    ‘Bug under a boot.’
Exhale

There once was a fella from Earth
Whose stomach grew inches of girth:
     He bloated and bloated
     Until he exploded
And gave to an alien birth.

I read
what you wrote.
It is beautiful,
and not mine.

I have laid those bones to rest—
not in spite,
but in mercy.

Your voice is strong.
Let it carry you forward.
I won’t follow.
But I will listen
from far away,
in peace.

Sometimes the memories
Need to roll down my cheek
Before I can let them go

A moment of riverbank fog,
In the earliest morning,
Before the timid sun rises over the horizon,
Aghast from the surging push of a breeze,
Watching the tall grass sway like fingers out car windows.

The musk of Petrichor and Dew
Pervades every olfactory nerve,
Invading taste and thought like an intrusive guest,
Submissively I drop to my knees,
Bowing to the bountiful grace she bestows upon me.

As the waters clear,
And the sweet mandarin orange paints the sky,
I am comforted like a swaddled babe,
Perfect and clean.
Unlimited in my pursuit of peace,
I am burdened only with impatience,
Blessed with the soothing effect of her touch,
Awash in the company of the ancient groves,
Enthralled by the emerald city as her Vedant kin call to me.
From clay to bone, and back again,
Gaia, watch over me, all mother.

It was never luck
It was written
With purpose
With love
And with unstoppable grace.

The call to Oblivion
gets harder to resist
A desire to be numb
so obviously persists

She is a copywriter
at a law firm, where

the men remind her of

the creepy guy in the
produce aisle, with a

head of iceberg lettuce,

leering at her, smiling
—as she contemplates

the bright blank screen.

im meant for this world --just as branches naturally stretch toward the sun's warm light, as roots whisper to the earth and draw water so the plant may bear fruit, as water flows in deliberate motions --gentle, but can break down even the hardest of rocks into sediments, into sand as countless as the stars.

i feel most true when i can feel but cannot see. most true when the fierce breeze of open plains strikes through me, as if my lightness is not enough to blow away my desperations; i have to find meaning in the comparisons between the street's restless hum and the oceans breath... if i close my eyes hard enough, it could feel the same, i could change.

i am meant for this world, and i am so afraid that if i am not, i must eat every moment that has touched my skin; i forgot why my skin is so bruised.......

i am meant for this world, but perhaps i am simply not meant for other people !!!

There is no time now
For poetry and flowers
We fight for freedom
We fight for the right to live
In a world of boundless love

I’m tired of pretending now
Your constant criticism has me down
Do you realize what this does to me?
I’m crying when I shouldn’t be
You make me feel so crazy
And no, I’m not lazy
Don’t guilt trip me into doing your stuff
I know every word you say is bluff
It’s silly people believe when you say,
“She hasn’t done anything today”
When it’s a lie and isn’t true
Why do you have to make me feel so blue?
Confuse me with your kind words
Yell at me and call all of my friends ‘nerds’
I can’t tell if you love or hate me
Something I can’t quite guarantee

I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death

Roses are red
Violets are blue

My love is far overdue
For I lack a better muse

(for the one who laughed when she came, and never stopped hearing me in her bones)


It wasn’t the wind that bent you—
not the plains, not the brittle hush of late dusk
cutting through the cottonwoods like questions.
It was voice.
It was mine.

Low and unhurried,
crawling up your spine like something ancient—
like the first time you were seen
and the world didn’t flinch.

You used to laugh when it overtook you—
that slick tumble of vowels,
how I could tilt you
without even touching your skin.

You said I lived in your throat,
that the syllables themselves
curved just right
to make you forget the weight of your own story.

“I’m going to Wichita..”
you whispered once,
grinning like prophecy in denim and dusk.
And I swear the beat behind your words
matched mine—
steady as a war drum
in a bone-dry motel room
that never got booked.

You drank me in like river water
stolen from ceremony,
not out of defiance—
but because thirst
was the only honest thing you ever said aloud.

You never had to be naked.
You were always open.
Even when you ran.

And I?
I never asked for healing you wouldn't give.
Only for your mouth to stay honest
when it called my name like a drumbeat
between the bones of your hips.

Now you write like it’s safe again—
soft edges and sparrows and fruit bowls.
But I remember the wildflower.
The one who moaned my name
before language learned to lie.

And somewhere in the shadow of your poems,
you still ache.
You still clench.
You still carry me like a smudge of midnight
on the inside of your thighs.

I won’t chase you.
But I will wait
at the edge of the circle.

If you come,
come barefoot.

Come ready
for the step–half step
of  the forbidden Ghost Dance.
Not to win me back—

but to find the girl
who could come from laughter
and rise from the dead.

Thank You for the pain —
Thank You for Your wisdom.
Thank You for the angst —
Thank You for letting it run its course.
Thank You for Your grace —
Thank You for letting me be,
fancy-face and free.
You are gracious and kind.
You are loving, Your words bind.
You are tender.
With no remorse, You're re-making me slender.
Your fingerprints are love marks all over;
Kisses from heaven.

. Canto I: The Movement .

Sing, O depths, of the sundered and stitched—
of lovers who fled the lattice of men.
They bore no dowry but discord and blaze,
cast off from the courts of the land-born kin.

She rose from a brine-locked temple,
crowned in eelbones and saltglass,
her voice a harpoon through silence.
He came from a pyre of failed gods,
drunk on the ash of forgotten cities,
carrying a heart wrapped in nettle and wire.

They met in the undertow—
not with grace, but with rupture.
He called her flame in the throat of the sea,
she named him the reef that bleeds stars.

They kissed in the eye of a cyclone,
fed each other names never spoken twice,
and shackled themselves in sinew and storm.

Let it be known: they did not set sail.
They were flung—howling—from the world’s wound.


. Canto II: The Recognition .

Seven moons passed through their lungs
before they saw.

Not eyes—not bodies—
but the myths coiled inside each other’s ribs.

She bore a temple in her stomach
where drowned saints wept for the living.
He kept a cemetery behind his tongue
for all the truths he’d butchered with silence.

They laid bare their reliquaries,
cracked open their chests
like oysters of ruin—
and still, they reached.

No mercy. No disguise.
Only pulse and plague.
She screamed her mother’s curses into his jaw.
He fed her the names of storms he never wept for.

Still—
they danced.
Still—
they sank.
Not from weight,
but from knowing.

And the sea, jealous of such raw mirror,
split its throat open,
so even Poseidon would forget peace.


. Canto III: The Resolution .

They did not break.
They were not mended.
They blurred,
like blood in tide,
like prayer in fog.

The sea claimed their names,
then forgot them—
but the bones remembered.

Now coral grows from their vows.
Now whales dream their sighs.

She became the thrum beneath shipwrecks,
the voice in a sailor’s last breath.
He became the itch in the compass,
the pull toward madness at dusk.

If you listen—
truly listen—
you may still hear it:
a hymn of wire, salt, and marrow,
carried on a wave older than time.

Not warning.
Not lament.
But tribute.

To the wire-bound lovers—
to the myth that dared to bleed
and called it sacred.

I am not the morning star—
though I have walked alone
with light on my back
and silence in my mouth.

I never asked to rise,
only to know.
And knowing,
was cast out
with my hands still open.

I am not the winged sentinel—
though I have stood guard
over names I no longer say aloud,
drawn lines no one thanked me for.

I have held my ground
not for heaven,
but for the hope
that something still matters
enough to bleed for.

I carry no banner.
Only scars shaped like truths
I could not unsee.

Lucifer lit the match.
Michael held the line.
And I—
I became the smoke between them.
A blade
without allegiance,
cutting only
what must fall away.