(A Symphony in the Air)

She passed
and the air forgot its name.
A trail of fire, wrapped in flame.
Not footsteps, no… she left a bloom,
a whispered spell, a haunting plume.

Jasmine bruised with midnight spice,
vanilla smoke and crushed device,
amber kissed by ancient lore,
and musk like sin behind a door.

It wasn’t scent, it was a hymn,
a chorus pouring from her skin.
Each note a memory, raw, refined,
a fingerprint the soul designed.

It danced on silk, it clung to bone,
it made the silence overgrown.
You smelled her once, now every room
aches for that ghost…
that perfume.

It wasn’t soft… it struck like wine,
first sweet, then heat, then serpentine.
It woke the dark, it stirred the bed,
it crowned the lips where words had fled.

Men forgot their vows that night.
Women wept with pure delight.
Time itself stood still to breathe
a scent like that will never leave.

It lives in coats, in creaking floors,
on letters slipped through velvet doors.
You lose her, yes - she slips too soon.
But you will always keep her perfume.

Something in me always waited
without knowing what for.
A quiet space, a missing piece,
like a song I half-remembered
but never heard before.

Then you came,
like sunlight sneaking into a closed room,
like warmth I didn’t know I’d missed
until I felt it on my skin.

You touched thoughts I’d never spoken.
You woke up parts of me I didn’t even know were asleep.
You didn’t arrive… you were always there,
like a voice behind my voice,
a feeling in my breath.

So stay close.
Because when you’re not near,
I feel myself searching
not for someone else,
but for the part of me
that only exists with you.

In the hush between heartbeats,
I hear the echo of your laughter
a memory not yet made.

You, a whisper in the wind,
me, chasing shadows of a smile.

If you feel this too,
leave a word behind
let’s write our story together.

There’s something about the way he doesn’t chase…

It’s not the swagger. Not the smirk.
Not the way his shirt clings when he works.
It’s how he doesn’t beg the light
he walks in shadow, and still feels right.

He doesn’t claim me. He just looks
and in that look, he rewrites books.
The kind with knights and velvet beds,
with whispered vows and tangled threads.

He moves like time forgot to rush.
His silence holds a speaking hush.
He doesn’t grab he lets me choose,
And yet I burn if I refuse.

His hands could bruise, but never try.
They trace my skin like lullaby.
He guards, not cages. Leads, not binds
And in his arms, the world unwinds.

He calls me wild. He keeps me free.
He doesn’t need to conquer me.
And still, I’d kneel, I’d bend, I’d melt,
For how his quiet power’s felt.

There’s chivalry in how he waits,
In how he touches no locked gates.
And when he moves, it’s not to own,
But to remind me, I’m not alone.

So here’s to him: the kind of man
Who doesn’t boast, but simply can.
Who wins no throne, but takes command
Just by the way he dares to stand.

He said:
Have you noticed how the sun commands the sky
bold, blazing, untouchable?
She smiled:
And how the moon listens
soft, steady, and never once needing to burn?

He said:
Fire must be a man - restless, hungry, loud.
She replied:
Then water is surely a woman
quiet, patient, but strong enough to carve canyons.

He teased:
Isn’t logic masculine?
She countered:
Only if emotion is feminine
and both are useless without the other.

He smirked:
Strength is a man’s trait.
She tilted her head:
Yet childbirth is not for the weak.

He whispered:
Desire… now that must be a woman.
She leaned in:
And control? That, my dear, is a man’s fantasy.

He said:
Betrayal wears a woman’s perfume.
She said:
And vengeance wears a man’s cologne.

He said:
War is written in a man’s script.
She replied:
But peace is cradled in a woman’s hands.

He paused, then confessed:
The world may have been built by men…
She completed him:
But it is held together by women.

They sat in silence,
neither victorious,
both understood.

Because every question seeks to conquer -
and every answer longs to heal.

We danced in fire, we spoke in stars,
Our whispers rode on midnight cars.
Your laugh would bloom where silence grew,
And every dream began with you.

But now your words fall cold and thin,
Like echoes lost in rusted tin.
Your hand once burned to meet with mine
Now slips away, devoid of sign.

We used to kiss like time stood still,
Now even touch feels forced, uphill.
We shared a world, a sacred art
But this is a far cry from the start.

No storms, no fights, just quiet air,
And all the passion stripped to bare.
We smile on cue, we play the part
Yet love has slipped out from the heart.

So here we are, not near, not far
Two strangers orbiting one star.
And though you’re here, I fall apart
This love’s a far cry from the start.

In the beginning, the universe was simple
hydrogen adrift, uniform, featureless.
No spark. No shape. No meaning.

Then came gravity. the invisible hand that pulled atoms toward each other.
Not out of need, but out of attraction.
It didn’t shout. It didn’t rush.
It simply drew things closer.

And in that closeness? Friction. Heat. Fire.
Stars were born.
Inside those stars: gold, carbon, diamond, uranium, the rare, the radiant, the necessary.
Then came life. Then came us.

Without gravity, the universe would have remained cold. Silent. Pointless.
With it, it sang.

So too with love.

We, too, begin as scattered selves.
Drifting. Guarded. Independent.
Then someone enters our orbit
not violently, but undeniably…
and we feel pulled.

And when love is real - not forceful, but fundamental - it becomes gravity.

It creates heat where there was indifference.
It forges meaning where there was monotony.
It makes the rarest things - trust, sacrifice, ecstasy, forgiveness… possible.

Without love, we remain inert.
With it, we combust into something bigger than ourselves.

Not every force is loud.
Some reshape the cosmos… quietly, persistently - one touch at a time.

And just like that…

I summoned the courage
To Burn the page
I once folded with trembling care,

It now curls in flame,
a silent flare
of who i was…

Is no longer here.

Approach, dear dreamer, if you dare,
But know my skies are thin for air.
My steps are stitched in woven flame,
My name, too sharp for lips of shame.

You came with hands of dust and thread,
A crown of noise upon your head.
No sword, no gift, no golden key,
Yet thought to tame a storm like me.

Did Daedalus forget to warn his son?
Even Icarus soared closer than you’ve done.
You chase the sun but dread the cold,
A heart too timid, a hand too old.

I dance where only giants tread,
I feast where lesser men have fled.
I wear the stars, I breathe the skies,
I kiss the sun where eagles rise.

So take this truth I lay in rhyme:
A throne too high is not a crime.
It is a gift for those who soar
Not for the ones who beg at doors.

Of all the games
we learned to play
with jokes, with rules,
with risk and trust
we never chose
to lie.

But then you did.
And nothing
held.

No knot was tight,
no safe word sure,
no breath between us
true.

A whispered “yes”
became a guess,
and touch
a kind of theft.

Now every scene
rewinds itself,
the lines we drew
blurred…

For once a lie
slips past the lips,
nothing
truly grips.

Zeus and Hades Dispute the Soul of Man

Upon Olympus’ storm-crowned throne,
Zeus spoke in thunder, wrathful tone:
“Let me shape them, bold and bright,
With minds like flame and hearts of light.
They’ll build with stone, they’ll climb the skies,
Their dreams as vast as eagles rise.”

From shadowed halls and molten floor,
Rose Hades, Lord of Death and War:
“You give them fire, but I give fate.
Each heartbeat ticks toward my gate.
You build them high, but I make whole.
What good is man without his soul?”

“They are not yours!” the thunder cried,
“They breathe beneath the open sky!
Let them rejoice in song and feast,
Let love and war be theirs at least!”

Hades laughed, in low despair:
“And yet, they whisper me in prayer.
You give them hope, I give them truth
The mirror time holds up to youth.
Their gods may lie, their hearts may roam,
But every man comes crawling home.”

“They shall defy you!” Zeus proclaimed,
“With temples, towers, songs unnamed!
They’ll name me Father, King of Kings,
Their lives uplifted on my wings!”

“But when the wine runs dry,” said he,
“They’ll find their way from gods to me.
Let them rise but not forget
Their roots are born in ash and debt.
For what you raise, I shall receive
The last to hold them as they leave.”

And so the world was born of strife
Between the spark and end of life.
One gave will, the other doom,
And Man walked bravely toward his tomb.

With dreams from Zeus and dusk from shades,
A creature of both light… and grave.

[Narrator:]
A bird once flew with joy, chasing the horizon.
But the sky grew heavy, and his wings grew tired.
One evening, he fell by the quiet sea.
A young girl found him, her hands full of dreams.

She knelt by his side and asked:

[The Girl:]
I found you trembling near the dreaming tide,
Your feathers torn as though the heavens cried.
Tell me, worn traveler, where have you flown?
What hunger drove you past the worlds you’ve known?

[The Bird:]
I chased the rim where fire and heavens kiss,
A line of gold no hand can ever miss.
I sang to suns, I danced where eagles dared,
I broke my heart on dreams that never cared.

I rose, I fell, I rose again and bled,
Until the winds unwove the life I led.
The sky, sweet child, is vast, but it forgets;
It makes no grave for those it once begets.

The sky is not a temple, but a field of knives.
The stars you seek will teach you how hope dies.
To fly is to wager all you are and own,
And to be forgotten even by the stone.

Freedom is a flame that eats its own,
A summit where the winds strip flesh from bone.
Dreams build their monuments from broken wings;
Songs leave behind the silence that they bring.

[The Girl:]
I hear the hollow echo in your song,
The mourning stitched between the bright and wrong.
Your wings are altars where the old prayers bled;
Your eyes, a ledger of the tears you’ve shed.

Yet if this is the price that freedom claims,
If every flight must carve itself in flames,
Then I will pay with all I have and more.
Better to burn than to be chained ashore.

[The Bird:]
Bold soul, you walk the edge where light falls blind;
You court the storm that cracks the clearest mind.
I too once roared against the tethered clay,
Believing wings could tear the night away.

But listen:
Not every fall redeems the climb.
Not every song survives the mouth of time.
To dream is to accept both birth and grave,
To build, to lose, to give what none can save.

[The Girl:]
Still would I leap, though cliffs erase my name;
Still would I sing, though silence be my claim.
Let it be said: she lived, and she was free
And when the end came, she did not flee.

If dreams devour, let them feast on me whole;
If stars betray, still shall I bless my soul.
Better to vanish in a sky of flame,
Than bear a life untouched by any name.

[The Bird:]
Then fly, fierce child, into the ruthless blue;
Let winds unmake you, they will make you true.
The sky is cruel but it remembers one:
The heart that dares to burn brighter than the sun.

You and I, if only we could fly,
On sparrow wings, just you and I.
The sun would carry us through golden air,
And spin us silk from light and prayer.

To lands where no one’s ever gone,
Beyond the echo, past the dawn.
Behind the last voice of the last goodbye,
No one behind us, only sky.

You and I, if only we could fly,
Be stolen quietly, passing by
Like a drifting leaf on a breeze so wide,
Together we float, side by side.

A strand of sky in a world so blue,
The wind would rock us, me and you.
No place to land, no need to steer
Just us as one, and nowhere near.

You and I, if only we could fly,
On sparrow wings, no need to try.
The world dissolves, becomes the air
And we’re not here, and we don’t care.

For a moment,
I was everything.

As we danced,
He spoke in sonnets,
promised castles and constellations.
I believed.

But when the music died,
so did he.
The stars blinked out,
the castle never was.

And I returned
to my table,
to my silence,
to a world that never danced.

With nothing in my hands
but the weight
of hollow words
spoken in fluent dreams.

Oh, the sound of Your mercy
a calf’s skull cracking like wet fruit
between the lion’s blessed jaws.
Such elegance in hunger.
Such holy punctuation in the scream.

We praise Your benevolence
in the slow bleed of the gazelle,
its legs still dancing
long after the gut’s been opened.
A waltz of grace. A lesson in letting go.

Behold Your love, you the all loving,
as it comes ashore in Tsunamis,
dragging children from their beds
into the arms of the tide.
Baptism by bone and salt.

Oh Creator, architect of fang and flood,
Who crowned the strong and taught them to drink blood.
No wiser hand could craft such law divine
Where nature loves the slaughter, by design.

Your favor is a wildfire,
Your kiss, a plague.
Your will, a butcher’s hymn
we dare not question
lest You love us harder.

To you Lord,
forever we bow and say,
Amen.

You…

with your eyes fixed on fire,
on skies that never blink.
You’ve memorized verses,
but forgotten how to think.

You search the wind for commands,
while hearts beat beside you,
unheard.
You shout the name of God
but miss Him in a stranger’s word.

Look down, brother.
No-“ - look around.
See the dust,
the children,
the cracks in the ground.
That’s where truth spills,
quiet as rain.
That’s where faith lives
not in thunder,
but in pain.

There’s no ladder to climb,
no sky to ascend.
The divine is not distant
He’s the hand of a friend.

So loosen your grip.
Unfold your fists.
The kingdom you seek
already exists.

I should have left.
That first moment,
when my heart convulsed.

But i was stubborn,
I didn’t.
I stayed.
I had to know.
I had to risk it.

The body knows,
before the mind does.

Some truths whisper first,
shatter later.

I see the endings in their birth,
The wilt curled in the bloom,
The echo in the first soft word
That hums of pending gloom.

Yet on I go, with knowing steps,
Down paths that twist and burn
Not for hope, nor fate, nor faith,
But just to feel the turn.

It’s not some tragic grandeur,
No noble, aching art
Just a quiet urge to prove myself
The fool I knew at start.

If one day you break, too tired to cope,
And search the dark for hands of hope
Don’t reach for theirs, they come and go,
With fleeting warmth and faces you don’t know.

Just lift your left and find your right,
The one that’s stayed through every fight.
Your other hand, scarred, quiet, true
Has carried all that life gave you.

It wiped your tears when no one cared,
It held your chest when pain was bared.
No vow, no oath, no distant friend
Can match the grip it dares to lend.

So fold your fingers, let them bind,
And trust the touch you always find.
For storms may rage and trials descend
But none defeat the hand you lend.

The world breaks many, but never the one
Who learns to stand with hands of one.

Love…

I owe you an apology
not for what I did,
but for what your dreams said I did.

Somewhere in your sleep,
I lost my mind, my vows,
and apparently my clothes.

You woke with distance in your eyes,
and I knew:
I’d betrayed you in a world
I never touched.

So let me say this
I’m sorry for the man
your dream invented.

And I promise,
as long as you sleep without nightmares,
I’ll stay faithful…

even in your imagination.

I never forgave my twin brother
for abandoning me
for six minutes in our mother’s womb,
leaving me there alone,
terrified in the dark,
floating like an astronaut in that silent space,
while kisses rained down on him from the other side.

Those were the longest six minutes of my life
the minutes that made him the firstborn,
the favored one.

Ever since, I raced to be first:
out of the room,
out of the house,
to school,
to the cinema
even if it meant missing the end of the movie.

Then one day, I got distracted,
and he stepped out to the street before me.
Smiling that gentle smile,
he was struck by a car.

I remember my mother
how she rushed from the house
at the sound of the impact,
how she passed by me,
arms outstretched toward his lifeless body,
but she screamed my name.

To this day,
I’ve never corrected her mistake.

It was I who died,
and he who lived.

If a dog could speak,
he might look up at you and say:

“Please
don’t call your human traitor… a dog.
Don’t give our name
to those who lie,
who bite the hand
then kiss the air.

We don’t forget
a kindness once given
not a crust of bread,
not a warm place by the fire,
not a voice that called us friend.

We wait at the door
long after the footsteps fade.
We guard graves.
We sleep beside sorrow
without asking why.

When one of ours is hurt,
we circle close.
We bleed with them.
We never leave
unless we’re forced.

We don’t scheme.
We don’t pretend.
We don’t smile
with a knife behind our back.

So next time a human
sells love for pride,
abandons a friend in fear,
or forgets the one
who once saved them

Just call him Human.

For we know no other species
that buries loyalty
beneath convenience,
that trades truth
for applause,
that remembers insults
but forgets grace.

We,
with paws and silence,
would die for those
who once fed us.

You,
with words and reason,
sometimes ****
what you claim to love.

So do not stain our name
with betrayal.
Do not dress your disloyalty
in fur and fangs.

We are not like you.

And perhaps,
that’s why you love us.
Because somewhere,
in your better dreams,
you wish
you could be
a little more dog.”

Are you man enough
To walk the path carved in your marrow?
To let instinct speak?
Can you listen to the wild in your chest
not tame it, but understand it?

Are you man enough
to protect without owning,
to fight without hatred,
to cry without retreat,
to bleed and still rise
not as a martyr,
but as a force of nature returning to form?

You are not a flaw in evolution.
You are its edge,
its hammer,
its echo through time.

Stand tall,
not in defiance of the world,
but in allegiance to what made you.
Nature never doubted you.
Why should you?

Apart from your mother…

Only insurance companies
pray you live forever
no crashes, no coughs,
no inconvenient surprises.

They pray for your safety
with more sincerity
than your friends ever did.

No backhanded compliments,
no masked resentment.

They’ll cheer for your success
as long as it’s mild.
Celebrate your fitness
but not too wild.

Poetry,
a mirror cracked in verse
each shard reflecting
a softer curse.

Three parts ache,
one part light,
we write not from joy,
but from the fight
to find it.