It is writ in mine own hand, though I scarce do recall the hour wherein it was penned. They would have named it love.
I named it him.
He was fair of visage—
in such wise as all things are
that are never meant to be held in mortal hands.
He was as light upon a winter’s morn—fair, yet fleeting, as all fair things be beneath heaven.
Men did call him beautiful; I called him mine.
He was as a wild rose, springing where no foot might safely tread, for all that beheld him did fear the wound of his thorns.
Yet I feared it not. I took him. I gathered him with trembling joy, and bore him close unto mine heart, though my fingers were already stained with crimson for it. I deemed pain a small coin for so rare a beauty. I deemed love might bind him unto me forever. Fool that I was. He tarried not. He faded, as candles fade in windless chambers—softly, and without mercy bestowed. No violence was in his departing, only an absence so complete it became a wound in itself.
I did entreat him then, as one entreats a departing dream— “Abide yet,” said I, “abide but a little longer.” But he was already gone from me, though his shadow yet did linger before mine eyes.
He had once spoken of constancy—of forever—as though such words were not as glass, fragile beneath a careless hand. I believed him. God forgive me, I believed him. After his passing, the world became as a house wherein all candles had been quenched
The days were long, yet void; the nights longer still, and full of remembrance. I would call his name into silence, though I knew no answer would come. And yet I called.
For the heart, once bound, doth not so easily unlearn its chains.
The rose is withered now, and lies no more in any garden known unto me
And I—though I yet draw breath—am as one who hath lost not only love, but the very tongue by which love is named.
…If this be remembrance of him,
then I fear I shall never forget.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 2:53 PM UTC
The dusk lies heavy o’er the land,
A solemn hush on every strand;
And though the world grows cold and wide,
I walk where all my hopes have died.
The withered fields recall thy grace,
A ghost‑light on the empty place;
And every wind that chills the air
Doth bear thy name in soft despair.
For sorrow, ancient as the night,
Doth swallow stars and steal their light;
And angels, once in radiance crowned,
Now tread the dust of broken ground.
Their halos, dimmed by grief untold,
Burn faint as embers growing cold;
And wings that once knew heaven’s height
Now falter in the failing light.
I wander ’midst their silent fall,
Where shattered gleams on shadows crawl;
And in that pale, forsaken glow,
I feel the ache no dawn may know.
Yet still I tread, though hope hath flown,
With hollow heart and marrow lone;
For love, once bright as seraph’s breath,
Now binds my soul in living death.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 2:44 PM UTC
Do not go where the willows weep,
where river waters crawl too deep—
for there is something dressed in white
that does not leave with fading light.
She stands where no one should remain,
half lost, half born of quiet pain,
her feet untouched by mud or stone,
as though the shore were not her own.
The elders speak in hushed despair,
“Do not meet her waiting there.”
For those who pause and meet her gaze
forget the world in watery haze.
She does not call—but still you hear
a voice like something once held dear,
a lullaby that twists and bends
until it sounds like old dead friends.
The river listens when she turns,
and something in its depths still learns
to rise and mimic every breath
as if rehearsing life from death.
They say she was a girl once whole—
but water keeps what takes a soul.
And what returns, though shaped like skin,
is never what it was within.
If she should lift her hand to you,
do not believe it’s mercy too—
for every step you take her way
is one you never leave again.
The willows know. The water knows.
And every night, the river grows
more voices caught beneath the tide—
and still she waits there, open-eyed.
So turn away. Do not delay.
Do not let dusk catch where you stay.
For if she smiles, if she is near…
it means the river wants you here.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 12:54 PM UTC
Come wander where the twilight stays,
And never yields to waking days,
Beyond the reach of ticking hours—
A quiet realm of drifting flowers.
No sun ascends, no night departs,
Yet gentle light still fills its parts,
As though the sky, in hushed reprieve,
Has chosen neither morn nor eve.
There blooms a garden, pale and wide,
Where silver petals softly glide,
Unrooted from the mortal ground,
Yet never lost, nor ever found.
Each blossom hums a tender tune,
A lullaby to keep the moon
From fading into distant sleep—
For here, all dreams are meant to keep.
The air is warm with half-formed thought,
With things remembered… yet forgotten,
A place where names grow faint and small,
And none are burdened by them at all.
If once you step within its grace,
You’ll feel the world begin to lace
Its edges loose, its meaning thin—
And something softer settling in.
No grief may follow where you tread,
No sharp regret, no words unsaid,
For all that aches is gently stilled
As though it never once was willed.
And there are figures, faint and fair,
Who wander dreamlike through the air,
Their voices low, their gazes kind—
Yet none may say what lies behind.
They do not speak of where they’re from,
Nor whisper what they might become,
For such things matter not, nor stay,
Within this ever-drifting grey.
One may approach, with quiet eyes,
And speak your name in softened sighs—
And though you know it once was yours,
It feels as though it’s something more.
A distant sound. A fading thread.
A word that lingers, half-unsaid.
“Stay,” they murmur, sweet and slow,
“For there is naught you need to know.
The waking world is loud and wild—
But here… you may remain a while.”
And oh, how kind that offer seems
To weary hearts and restless dreams.
To lay aside the weight of day,
And let all certainty decay.
But should you linger overlong,
And lose yourself within the song,
You may forget what once was true—
That dawn…
was always meant for you.
For in that garden, soft and deep,
Where even time has fallen asleep,
No sun will rise to call you home—
And you shall dream…
and only roam.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
Attend, dear heart, and mark me well,
For I shall speak what few will tell—
Of that which dwells where shadows cling,
A soft and slow, unholy thing.
Beneath the stair, where light grows thin,
Where dust and silence settle in,
There lies a space both cold and bare—
And something else is living there.
It does not breathe as creatures do,
Nor cast a shape the eye may view,
Yet oft at night, when all is still,
It wakes, as though it has a will.
At first, ‘tis but a gentle sound—
A shift, a sigh, beneath the ground,
A creeping stir, a careful tread,
As though it walks where none have led.
You tell yourself, “It is the wood,
Old bones that creak as old things should,”
And yet… it comes when you draw near,
As though it knows. As though it hears.
Pray do not linger by that place,
Nor stoop to peer into its space,
For though ‘tis dark and void to sight,
You may be seen within that night.
For it has learned—oh yes, it learns—
The way a candle twists and burns,
The way a human pauses, still,
When seized by some unspoken ill.
And most of all, it learns your tread—
The weight, the rhythm of your step,
So that, in time, you scarce can tell
If it is you… or something else.
One eve, you’ll hear it on the stair—
A step… a pause… but none are there.
Another night, outside your room,
A breath that stirs the quiet gloom.
Then nearer still.
Then just behind.
A second shadow, misaligned.
It does not rush. It does not chase.
It only longs to take your place.
To stand where once your body stood,
To be mistaken as it would—
To wear your voice, your borrowed grace,
And leave you lost… in its dark place.
So bar the door, and quench the light,
And pray you sleep untouched by night—
Yet heed me well, for this is true:
It does not come—
until it’s you.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 12:49 PM UTC
O heed me now, and turn thy gaze
From silvered glass and polished face,
For not all mirrors meekly show
The truths that mortal eyes may know.
There hangs within the quiet hall
A slender frame, both pale and tall,
Its surface smooth, its edges worn—
A thing that’s watched far longer than born.
By day it serves as others do,
Reflecting form both false and true,
Yet something lingers, faint, unkind,
Just past the reach of common mind.
For glance too long, or stare too deep,
And it may stir from feigned sleep—
A subtle shift, a breath misplaced,
A shadow not your own… but faced.
At first, you’ll doubt what you have seen,
Dismiss the tremor, call it dream,
And laugh it off with nervous grace—
Until it does not match your face.
Your smile will falter—yet remain,
Too slow to fade, too wrong, too plain.
Your eyes will blink—but not in kind,
As though the glass has lagged behind.
Pray, step away—do not return.
There are some things you should not learn.
For every glance you dare to steal,
It takes far more than it reveals.
It studies you in patient art—
The tilt of head, the beating heart,
The way your lips begin to part
Before you even think to start.
And when it knows you, through and through,
It shall attempt… to mirror you.
Not as a trick of light or frame—
But something far more still… and same.
One night, when candles gutter low,
And shadows writhe in silent woe,
You’ll pass the glass and idly see—
It does not need you there to be.
It moves alone.
It breathes—if breath
Can dwell in things untouched by death.
It turns its head to where you stand,
Though you have made no such command.
And worst of all—
It smiles first.
So shatter it, you might then plead,
Reduce it down to shards with speed—
But broken glass remembers still,
Each fragment holding thought and will.
A hundred eyes, a hundred lies,
Still watching where your image dies.
And when at last no frame remains,
No silvered truth, no binding chains—
You’ll find, too late, what you became:
A borrowed face.
A hollow name.
And somewhere, in a place unknown,
The mirror walks—
…no longer alone.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 12:48 PM UTC
Come closer, love, and take my hand,
And walk with me along the strand,
Where silver waves kiss ashen shore
And whisper things of evermore.
The tide is low, the night is deep,
The world itself appears asleep—
Yet hear you not that distant song,
So soft… so sweet… so very wrong?
It drifts upon the salted air,
A voice too fair, too full of care,
That calls as though it knows your name—
And loves you all the same.
Ah, do not turn—do not deny,
For longing lives within that cry.
It winds itself about your chest
And bids your weary heart to rest.
“They wait for thee,” the waters sigh,
“Where none shall part, and none shall die.”
And oh, how kind that promise seems
To those undone by fragile dreams.
Step closer still—the sea is warm,
It means you neither grief nor harm.
Its hands are gentle, pale and wide,
A patient, ever-reaching bride.
Have you not felt her watching long?
Within the pull of every song?
Within the hush of every wave
That laps as though it longs to save?
For she has seen you, night by night,
Your lonely walks, your silent plight—
And she has loved you, from afar,
More deeply than the living are.
The others speak of depths and dread,
Of restless souls and nameless dead—
But they have never heard her plea,
Nor felt the way she calls to thee.
“Come, dearest heart,” the waters croon,
“I’ve watched thee wander far too soon.
Lay down thy sorrow, soft and slow—
There is no pain in depths below.”
And should you wade where moonlight breaks,
And feel the chill the ocean makes,
You’ll find it fades… it turns to grace—
Like gentle hands upon your face.
She draws you close.
She will not part.
She learns the rhythm of your heart.
And when at last you cease to fight,
She kisses you…
goodnight.
The shore will wait, as shores have done,
For lovers lost and never won.
And some will swear, on quiet eves,
They hear a voice among the waves—
A tender call, so full, so true…
And think, perhaps,
it calls for you.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 12:48 PM UTC