He never touched you.
Yet you linger in him—
like the scent of damask rose in forgotten temples,
or the shadow of lotus petals
pressed between the pages of a life unlived.
You weren’t given,
nor claimed,
but you remain—
as Persephone remains between two worlds,
half spring, half surrender.
He sees you
in the gold-threaded robes of Isis,
mother of the hidden,
protector of what cannot be possessed.
You, soft as jasmine at dusk,
yet dangerous as the bloom of belladonna,
a beauty he could never hold
without trembling.
His logic is iron.
His mind, a fortress.
Yet inside,
you bloom like Freyja’s garden in Asgard—
wild, untamed,
known only to the gods and the ghosts
of those who once dared to love.
He remembers you
in the absence of touch—
how your voice would’ve sounded
saying his name.
Not as a woman made of earth,
but like Aphrodite rising from seafoam,
untouchable and immortal in her effect.
He walks through the world
wearing your memory
like a garland of hyacinths—
invisible,
but fragrant enough
to undo his certainty.
He calls your name in thought
only when Hermes isn’t listening.
Because you were not a prayer—
you were the echo
of something already sacred.
You are not his.
You were never his.
But in the sacred ache
between Odin’s wisdom and Hades’ restraint,
he worships what he cannot claim.
And so you became
his unseen Nemesis—
not to punish,
but to remind him
that even gods must kneel
before something they cannot keep.
You are the iris that opens at midnight,
the secret grove behind his ribs,
where he returns not for peace—
but to remember what almost was.
You are his
without being.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:42 AM UTC
Cruel Cronos engraved me early,
not with gentleness,
but by hands of shadows
who mistook my springtime figure
for silence,
who thought my tears
were seeds easily buried.
I was a sanctuary of lilies,
crushed before the bloom,
a jasmine bruised by shadows,
an innocent violet forced into stone.
Their voices were storms,
their laughter—chains of iron,
and I, too petite to fight,
learned the language of fear.
Yet within me, a sunflower spark—
refusing to give up its soul,
rooted itself deeper,
drinking light even from darkness,
whispering: you are more than their hands,
you are more than their cruelty.
So I rose, piece by piece,
a wounded Rose of Venus,
crowned not by shame,
but by the fire of endurance.
Where they carved burning scars,
I carved flourishing constellations.
Where they plucked petals,
I grew wings of lavender and flame.
Now my voice is the garden restored:
not silent,
not broken,
but alive—
a testament that innocence stolen
is not innocence lost,
that even from the deepest, darkest wound,
a sunflower can rise
and teach the world
what it means
to see, to feel,
and yet not become a shadow itself.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:37 AM UTC
I see myself through your onyx-moon eyes,
reflecting lifetimes beneath their dark, still surface.
I hear echoes of my past self in your voice,
soft as falling petals—
a resonance of storms I once weathered.
I have walked nearly the same sacred path—
though you move swifter than the wind,
speak with the thunderclap of Athena's shield,
and shine brighter than Apollo's first light.
Once, a quiet child,
afraid of the voices of angry birds,
haunted by monsters who wore mortal skin,
now stands like a mountain in stormlight—
shaking stone, breaking iron,
unfolding wings carved from suffering.
Power rests within your heart.
You just have to set yourself free
and rise above your painful ashes—
as the phoenix is always reminding us:
even darkness serves the bloom.
And with glory and grace,
it rises from the ugliest hell—
a constellation redrawn across the sky
for others to witness and remember:
the girl once silenced
is now myth,
is now sovereign.
That pure soul, once wingless,
wove galaxies with trembling hands,
built a world from garden bones and broken lullabies—
a kingdom rooted in empathy
and crowned with wild roses.
Here, laughter rings like chapel bells.
Here, loyalty is the highest spell.
And respect towers like golden pillars,
engraved with the names of those
who dared to become whole.
No damsels here—
only queens of the flame,
warrior-poets in velvet armor,
keepers of sacred fire and gentle law.
This is not just a dream.
It is a place to call home.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:36 AM UTC
It happened on one blue day
when my petals were bruised,
and my spirit almost hung itself,
no longer bearing the weight of being an immortal light source
in a time of forgotten prayers.
I was nearly weeping—
not in storms that swallow the world around me,
but in the language
of scorpion grasses at dusk—
soft, bowed, barely blooming.
He came like a gentle comet,
not as a man,
but as the guiding Hermes—
a smile, soft as sacred crocuses,
carrying no judgment, emerging from a cold land,
gently touching the unopened bud
of my fragile sorrow,
just to remind me:
someone still sees.
Then came the embrace—
two arms wrapped around
like vines of honeysuckle
entwining the walls of my cold cathedral of solitude
with warmth and grace:
a tulip and hyacinth embroidery.
I did not flee from that sacred place,
not because I forgot Eros,
but because I remembered Persephone,
longing for the sun,
wandering through labyrinths of wonder
even in Hades’ hasty gentleness.
But guilt arrived
on a shocking wave of pain,
measuring the weight of my heart
against a moment I did not ask for—
nor did I deserve it,
yet I allowed it.
Not ashamed for desiring a mortal feeling,
but for that pale flicker of bloom
that rose inside my crimson heart
and dared to face the sun.
Yet even so,
I crossed no sacred boundary,
and kept my faith to Hera’s vows—
my trembling hand bore no corruption,
only the scent of oleander.
Now I return
to the sacred garden I tend with care,
to the altar of my chosen love,
where trust grows like lavender
at the gates of devotion.
He saw me unguarded,
but I see myself whole again—
a celestial being reborn beneath the stars:
not untrue or disloyal,
only open,
only tender,
only alive.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:34 AM UTC
I am just a cub,
Alone in a garden of flowers.
And as much as I delight in being seen by others,
I long, with all my being, to finally know myself.
As the world pauses to take a breath,
I press forward with quiet courage.
Freedom unfurls its petals within me,
Opening in this very moment.
So I take the leap of faith, and jump.
At the beginning of that journey,
The garden feels as though it tears my flesh apart—
A disturbingly pleasant sensation,
For I have walked among these realms before,
Before I even knew how to shape sound with my voice.
Without rushing,
Without making the water tremble,
The conscious mind gives way,
Leaving space for the adventure to blossom.
So it begins.
The traveler’s portal opens its radiant chest,
And the cub passes through.
From that realm of truth, I drift back in time,
Peering through binoculars at ancient predators,
Studying their movements,
Tracing them like vines across memory.
Once, the creatures noticed my gaze—
And though they attacked, I escaped
With only a scratch on my paw,
A scar like a thorn’s kiss.
I return to the present garden,
But the traveler aches for more.
And so, it begins again.
The next realm blooms in Atlantis.
The cub now breathes beneath sapphire waters,
Transformed into a creature of the deep,
A flower of the ocean’s secret garden.
I drift among coral columns and temple ruins,
Their stories flowing into me
Like nectar through a stem.
My touch gathers their forgotten whispers,
Petal by petal, memory by memory.
At last, the fuel of wonder fades,
And the traveler must return.
The garden door calls softly,
Its blossoms swaying in welcome.
I leap once more,
And with gratitude, reality gathers me gently
Back into its fragrant arms.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:31 AM UTC
Time has passed fast,
Yet it kept me awake—
Constantly living that moment,
That spark of eternity,
That ray of glowing sunshine,
Luminous and delightful as the bluebell
Photographed by a pair of big, earthy eyes,
Kept alive on the surface of my retina,
Along neuronal pathways,
Planted like a sunflower seed
Deep inside my consciousness,
Flourishing and thriving,
Sweet as a lavender mousse.
So if the memory of our first encounter
Is delicate as a jasmine flower,
Or mesmerising as a sunset hibiscus,
You, my beloved, are the Rose of Venus—
As Aphrodite dances around Gaia,
Leaving traces of red jasper petals,
Keeping us on the path to greater love—
So do you.
As the pure ones walk through the Garden of Eden,
Or as Iris brings the majestic rainbow
As a messenger of the gods,
Growing straight along its path to wisdom,
Bringing strength and boldness
To those who are blessed enough to see—
So do you.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:30 AM UTC
There comes a time of year
When the grand bargain begins,
Not on the streets filled with vitality,
But in the shadows of the necropolis.
That time when the Four O’Clock flower breaks,
Shattered glass strewn across morality,
Violins echoing through chrysanthemums—
An entire ballad of the false prophets.
And in such a dreadful realm,
The White Dahlia enters with petals shrinking,
Trembling as the winds begin to embrace her.
Two pairs of eyes seize her gaze:
One’s Deadly Nightshade, the other’s Devil’s Hand.
One is there to devour her soul;
The other to protect and shield her.
Unfortunately, all entities wear masks.
What gleams is venom,
What offers refuge seems lethal.
The first waltz with the broken, virtuous entity
Unfolds in darkness,
Flowers shivering in the aura that surrounds him.
Warnings drip from his affection;
Her vitality seeps into his mask.
The long, agonizing sway ends in tears.
The second dance with the wicked one
Casts beams of pearly light across the floor,
Flickers of hope and sparks tangled in mysterious smiles.
Tiny, precise steps lure her core into an abyss.
She blooms once more—
Only to be severed again with the final sigh of her stamina.
What happened to them, you might ask?
Devil’s Hand betrays his loving core, vanishing into
obscurity.
White Dahlia, dripping tears of blood, continues to bloom
—
Brighter, fiercer than ever.
Deadly Nightshade aches still,
Hunting those ruby tears with insatiable hunger.
One astray, one reaching the focal point, one hollow within
its own elegance.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:28 AM UTC
I entered your city under a moonless bloom,
seven devils lurking like shadows through jasmine air,
their steps shaking the marrow of your marble streets.
They will not leave
until they drink the vitality of your soul.
You are a wall dressed in morality’s silk,
but beneath, your stones are rotting petals.
You built shields from righteous words,
painted your mask in the colors of lilies,
but your blood tells me another tale —
I have read it, burgundy and ancient,
pressed between the pages of your veins.
Seven devils circle you,
five above, two below.
Those above will strip the crown from your logic,
those below will scatter your seeds of silence
buried deep in your core.
There is no untouched corner,
no locked garden gate
my winds cannot tear through.
I do not fear your walls.
I do not fear your guards.
I am the storm you thought could be silenced,
but I bow to no compass.
I will rip the mask from your flesh,
grind your towers into bone-dust.
Your mighty city will fall beneath the weight of the truth
you’ve hidden beneath stone and ivy.
And when all is ash,
when your roads are only abysses
and your last breath tastes of burnt roses,
you will see I did not come to **** you
but to strip away your lies
and let your flesh breathe for the first time.
You will not forgive me.
But one day,
you will know
I am the judgment that brought your rebirth.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:27 AM UTC
The watchers call you cold—
a statue carved with surgical tools,
with steady hands from ruling lives,
dark-colored eyes trained to hold distance,
like the Moirai who spin the thread of life,
representing birth, yet you are the weaver of rebirth.
I never asked you for anything otherworldly,
yet I lost an arrow like Artemis
in the cracks of those broken temple walls.
And you, not knowing, carried it in your ribs.
Ashamed, and without thinking too much,
I came to leave a single orange blossom
on your altar, where the stones hold your warmth
for those who once waited for answers.
You were nothing like winter.
You were the warmth of dusk—
such as Orpheus sang for his beloved Eurydice,
a forgotten god resting in silence
with crimson lilies at his feet
and the scent of that orange blossom lingering.
With others, your gaze is an endless eclipse.
With me—
a soft dawn rising through the pyramids,
your shoulders softened,
and your heart balanced with the feather,
like I somehow showed you the passage
to the Fields of Reeds.
You never told me who you were.
You didn’t have to.
The soft tremble in your fingers
when I left the cup of red wine on your sacred tomb
told me more than language and oracles ever could.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve met you before—
on the steps of an Egyptian temple,
when I was a new priestess of Anubis,
and you brought jasmine flowers and truths
I wasn’t allowed, as a novice, to hear.
When eyes collided—purely and innocent—
you almost dropped your parchments
and didn’t flinch in anger.
Your hands—so skilled in precision—
shook slightly
when mine came too close for help.
You weren’t cold.
You were holding back the Great Flood
so no one would ever drown again.
But I—
I have always been made of water,
the kind that rises gently around the marble,
nurturing the oleanders.
I have known you
in ruins beneath vines,
under stars unspoken by many.
I was the voice in your darkness
when the world called you too quiet.
You were those hands around my shoulders
when I wept for things I could never name—
because they might become reality.
You are not stone.
You are fire beneath ash,
and I—
I have known for many lives
how to read the smoke.
So when you look at me
with eyes others call cold,
I see instead
a field of poppies behind them,
an armoured soul
whispering stay, please
with every blink.
I do not want to melt you.
I only want you to remember
that once,
you were seen—
not for your sharpness
but for your silence,
and those storms around you.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:25 AM UTC