She held the map of every secret vein,
The blueprint of your pulse, your hidden fears;
She knew the rhythm of your coming rain,
And dried the salt before it turned to tears.
How strange that one who knew the soil so well,
Could find the heart and light the match to hell.
The world collapses in a silent roar,
When she who planted lilies brings the flame.
The garden where you breathed is now no more,
A blackened script that bears your childhood name.
May the land of your soul never bloom the same,
When love is used to feed the burning game.
You stand amidst the ash, still breathing air,
A ghost of hope that waits for clouds to break.
You beg for storms to wash the spirit bare,
To cool the fever and the hollow ache.
But rain is just a witness to the gray—
It cannot wash the charcoal scars away.
The sky may open, and the floods may fall,
But water cannot mend what fire has stole.
You learn to walk behind a blackened wall,
For time is not a healer of the whole.
No matter what the seasons try to give,
A burned soul is a burned soul while you live.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 6:56 AM UTC
For some, life is a flicker of light;
For others, a plummet into the deep.
But life is only the shape of the soul,
And the secrets we choose to keep.
It is a tragedy how the arrogant boast,
As if they’ve tasted every sea—
While ignoring the hidden, bitter springs
That define reality.
The forgotten are left like autumn leaves,
Dry, wrinkled, and cast aside,
But that leaf carries a beautiful, broken soul
With nowhere left to hide.
When that soul meets the water's stream,
It changes everything it touches.
But the water must choose what it wants to find
In the leaf it holds in its clutches.
For there is always one who tries their best,
Only to vanish in the crowd—
Losing the real prize in the noise of the rest,
And the voices that boast too loud.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 8:45 AM UTC