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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.
This poem captures the quiet unraveling of a relationship, the slow drift from intimacy to emotional distance. It reflects how love can fade not through chaos, but through silence, routine, and absence of true connection
Cadmus Elissa Apr 30
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.
🚂

We board with desire.

We return with clarity.

And somewhere between the stations,

we learn

What was attainable.

And what was worth carrying.

🚊
This poem captures the quiet transformation that time brings. We begin our journey burdened with ambition, desire, and expectation—only to return tempered by experience, having shed what we once thought essential. It’s a meditation on simplicity, loss, and wisdom.
Cadmus Elissa May 11
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.
This poem is a work of dark satire reflecting on the brutality embedded in the natural world. Its tone of reverent sarcasm is aimed at questioning the notion of a benevolent creator within a system governed by predation, suffering, and indifference.
🚪

If your past knocks,
don’t answer.

It’s not here to talk

it’s here to wreck
what took you years
to rebuild.

Let it knock.
Let it wait.
Let it rot.

Just don’t forget:
some doors
are better sealed
forever.
This piece is a reminder that not every return deserves a welcome. The past, especially the parts you’ve outgrown, often carries the power to unravel healing. Strength lies not in revisiting, but in refusing to regress.
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.
Sometimes the people we miss the most are the ones we’ve never met, just imagined in perfect moments, half-dreamed, half-hoped. If this stirred something in you, say so. Maybe you’re the echo I was waiting for.
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.
This poem exposes the transactional nature of modern relationships, using insurance companies as a metaphor for the rare, conditional loyalty found in a world where even love is often veiled in competition, envy, or quiet sabotage.
Cadmus Elissa Apr 30
[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.
This poem is a metaphorical tale about a young woman challenging the weight of social traditions and limitations, choosing the perilous beauty of freedom over the safety of conformity.
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.
A self-aware confession dressed as poetry because sometimes wisdom doesn’t save us from walking straight into the fire we already smelled.
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.
In astrophysics, gravity doesn’t merely hold things together, it ignites fusion, births stars, and enables time itself to have consequence. Likewise, in human connection, love isn’t just an emotion; it is the unseen force that creates depth, memory, meaning, and the conditions for growth. Without gravity, the universe is static. Without love, so are we.
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.
This piece is a poetic exploration of the magnetic tension between masculine fire and feminine grace - where wit flirts with vulnerability, and mockery gives way to meaning. It’s not a battle of genders, but a dance of energies drawn to complete each other in heat, in hush, and in heart.
Wink
⬇️
Tease
⬇️
Chase
⬇️
Giggle
⬇️
Tangle
⬇️
Bounce
⬇️
Repeat
🔄
A cycle of flirtation, mischief, and irresistible tension  - this isn’t just a mood, it’s a ritual. Seduction, on loop.
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.
Sometimes we carry our fears into dreams, and wake with the ache of something that never happened. Love means apologizing anyway , not for guilt, but for care. Because even imagined hurt deserves a real embrace.
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.”
This poem gives voice to the silent loyalty of dogs, contrasting it with the conditional, often self-serving nature of human relationships. It challenges the use of “dog” as an insult, suggesting that even in their silence, animals often carry more integrity than those who speak.
Cadmus Elissa Apr 30
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.
Lucky is the one who meets their matching other half, the one who feels like home in a world of strangers. Not everyone gets that kind of alignment, where two souls fit without force. When it happens, it’s nothing short of sacred.
🛐

If my trust in God’s love were complete,

My prayers wouldn’t beg for change,

they’d whisper thanks for the earthquake .

☔️
Faith isn’t always a peaceful acceptance. Sometimes, it’s a whispered rebellion dressed as prayer. because belief is easiest when life is kind, and hardest when we’re asked to live without answers.
They say love makes the world go ‘round…

But try proposing without a diamond that whispers loud…
Money…

Family dinners full of smiles and fights repressed…
Money…

Cousins showing up at Christmas looking freshly blessed…
Money…

The secret to youth? It’s not kale or prayer…
Money…

Just a surgeon, a syringe, and some derriere repair…
Money…

You want the Nobel? Sure, write your thesis with flair…
Money…

But someone still paid for that tenured chair…
Money…

The kids need books, a laptop, and a chance to dream…
Money…

Also Wi-Fi, tutoring, and a school with steam…
Money…

Evolution gave us fire, but civilization gave us class…
Money…

And the biggest difference between king and ***…
Money…

You want to change the world? Start a cause? Break a curse?
Money…

Or you’ll be that guy with vision… and an empty purse…
Money…

Science needs data, equipment, and trust…
Money…

Also snacks for the lab, and a fridge that won’t rust…
Money…

Want to flirt, be adored, radiate that spark?
Money…

Or stay home, scroll apps, and die in the dark…
Money…

Even funerals aren’t free, your last “to-do”…
Money…

Because dying is easy, but burial? Whew…
Money…

So next time someone tells you it isn’t everything…
Money……

So here’s your truth, wrapped neat and funny:
Everything you touch, trust, taste, or tolerate runs on…
Money…
If this poem made you uncomfortable, don’t worry, it’s probably just your bank account recognizing itself in the mirror. Side effects may include existential budgeting and spontaneous side hustles.
🩸

We all have wounds.
Not all of them
show blood
trickling on the skin
those are the lesser ones.

The body heals.
Scabs form.
Scars fade.

But some wounds
bleed a different kind of red
silent,
invisible,
constant.

They live beneath smiles,
hide behind handshakes,
and echo
in quiet rooms.

No bandage fits them.
No doctor sees them.
And yet,
they shape us more
than any knife ever could.
This poem explores the unseen nature of emotional and psychological pain. While physical wounds are acknowledged and treated, the deeper, invisible ones often go unnoticed, yet they linger far longer and shape who we become.
Let it go under.

Neither the rowers are honest,
nor the passengers loyal.

Let it sink…

For in this floating masquerade,
drowning is the only honest act.
Sometimes, destruction is clarity. When all roles are false and all hands unclean, letting go is not surrender, it’s truth.
Cadmus Elissa May 11
~

Don’t grow up.

~

ITS A TRAP

~
Adulthood promises freedom, but often steals wonder.
It doesn’t scream.
It whispers
soft as ash
settling
where fire used to be.

It lives
in the pause
before you speak your truth,
in the mirror
you half avoid
each morning.

It wears your voice
in rooms where you shrink,
calls itself “just tired,”
“just busy,”
“just fine.”

It is the bruise
you forget to touch,
the silence
you defend
with a smile too wide.

No blood.
No scar.
Just the slow unraveling
of who you were
before you believed
you were not enough.
Shame is a quiet architect of silence, often unspoken, yet deeply rooted. These verses aim to give voice to what hides in the dark and light to the path of healing.
(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.
Perfume is more than fragrance , it’s a memory with a pulse, a phantom that lingers longer than presence itself. This poem captures how scent seduces, imprints, and outlives even the moments it was made for.
🥃

I must’ve been drunk,
under a spell,
or half-asleep
with my soul on mute

because some of the people
I let into my life
were the kind
I wouldn’t let near
if I’d been even
half
conscious.

Not in daylight.
Not with clarity.
Not with my guard up
and my self-respect awake.

like a fool
hosting thieves
in the middle of a dream.

🥃
This piece captures the bewilderment and regret of past emotional decisions, highlighting how vulnerability, distraction, or denial can invite people into our lives who never deserved the invitation. It’s a bitter laugh at our own temporary blindness.
It wasn’t you…

You were exactly
as you are.

It was me,
who turned your smile into a sunrise,
and blamed you,
when it rained.

☔️
We don’t fall because others lift us too high, we fall because we climbed with our own illusions. My mistake wasn’t in trusting you. It was in scripting an ending you never signed up for.
You think this is a tantrum?

Child

This is the wrath of gods
who waited centuries
before they raised their hand.

I am not your wounded girl.
I am Nemesis unchained,
Kali in stillness before the storm.
My silence was mercy.
You mistook it for peace.

I do not wail. I summon.
I do not flinch. I fracture.
Your name is already ash
on the altar of my patience.

I offered grace.
Now I offer consequence.

Run if you like.
Pray if you must.
But even Olympus learned
no one walks away
from a goddess enraged.
Anger, when divine, doesn’t shout. It judges. And every empire built on dismissal learns the cost of silence misread.
Its very weird…

I looked into their faces
the ones who truly broke me.
No enemies among them.

Just Brutus,
in many forms,
smiling.
Familiar hands,
and mouths,
that once said

I never would.


as they held the knife
like a gift.
This piece reflects on the dissonance between pain and intent - how the deepest betrayals often come not from enemies, but from those closest to us. The reference to Brutus evokes the timeless sting of betrayal by someone trusted, echoing Caesar’s famous last breath: “Et tu, Brute?”
Sometimes,

you find yourself walking alone.

not because you’re lost,

but because you know

the road

so **** well.
This poem reframes solitude not as confusion, but as clarity born from experience. It honors the strength of those who choose to walk alone - not from loneliness, but from hard-earned wisdom.
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.
Some wounds don’t bruise. They whisper. A single lie can unravel what a thousand touches built.
They laughed when he showed up
with a résumé in hand.
Tail tucked, horns sanded down,
wore a tie, shook hands.

“I used to tempt kings,
whispered wars into ears.
Now I scroll headlines
and choke back tears.”

He tried marketing
but humans were better
at selling lies with smiling teeth
and discount codes for sin.

He applied for politics
but found the position filled
by those who make devils
blush in admiration.

Tried tech
but algorithms already knew
how to addict, divide,
and hollow out souls
with precision.

Even in war,
they no longer need whispers.
They bomb hospitals
and call it strategy.
He offered corruption.
They offered quarterly targets.

“They don’t need me anymore,”
he sighed to the clerk.
“They’ve mastered the craft.
I was just a spark
They made it an industry.”

Now he wanders,
CV in flames,
hoping someone will want
a washed-up fallen angel
who simply can’t compete
with modern man.
This poem uses satire to explore the depths of human moral decay, flipping the traditional narrative of evil. Once feared, Satan is now obsolete, as humanity’s capacity for cruelty, manipulation, and greed has far surpassed mythic malevolence.
We stopped when blame grew silent,

and words turned into shards

each step toward each other

cut deeper than the last.
Some loves don’t end in thunder… just the soft, unbearable sound of two hearts stepping away to avoid the splinters.
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.
Sometimes grief chooses the wrong name. And sometimes, we let it.
Cadmus Elissa May 12
Don’t be alarmed
if evil blooms
where you sowed
your gentlest good.

Not all earth
welcomes roots
some soils rot
what should have stood.

So plant with love,
but learn the ground,
for even light
can be misunderstood.
A reflection on misplaced effort, toxic environments, and the wisdom of discernment.
Take off your clothes.
Slow.
Let them slip like secrets.
Let the silk confess.

Step forward.
Bare skin. Bare soul.
No perfume to distract me,
no colors to lie.

Drop the stories,
the stitched-up smiles,
the lace of excuses.

I want you raw,
**** under the light,
where nothing hides
and everything dares to be real.

You’re never more beautiful
than when you’re stripped
of all that isn’t you.

Take off your clothes.
Let me meet
THE NAKED TRUTH.
This poem uses sensual imagery to expose a deeper metaphor, how truth, like the human body, is most powerful when unadorned. It speaks to the beauty of vulnerability and the courage it takes to stand uncloaked in front of another.
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.
Some men don’t love you. They just know how to speak fluently in dreams.
Cadmus Elissa May 11
The loss of one

splits the heart in two.

And through that crack,

the others slip too.
This poem reflects how the deepest heartbreak doesn’t always come in waves, sometimes it begins with one great fracture, and everything else quietly unravels from there. It’s about how grief can dull our senses, making future losses feel distant or invisible.
Cadmus Elissa May 11
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.
A reflection on letting go of a version of the self once protected, now transcended.
🦊

Even a fox
has heroic tales to tell
Epic chases, Narrow escapes,
Bravery under Moonlight.

But,
every victory
was won
against chicken.

🐓
A satirical reflection on how those who boast the loudest often choose the weakest opponents. It mocks false bravado and the way predators dress up their predation as valor.
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.
This piece is a gentle plea to those who seek the divine only in the skies, forgetting that the sacred often lives in the eyes, hands, and hearts of the people around us. True spirituality is not escape, it is presence.
Cadmus Elissa May 11
And you are not prepared for it.

In your lifetime,
you may never fall in love.
You may never raise a child,
nor build a legacy,
nor touch the oceans.

It isn’t the act of giving,
or traveling the world.
Not even living an adventure,
nor achieving great goals.

All of those and more…
are possibilities.
Not certainties.

But one thing is absolutely certain:
YOU WILL DIE

Ah
Yes, it will
It will happen
As a reflection of life
Not  as  dreaded  evil  punishment.
Not as a result of failure.
 Just a real fact.
EMINENT
So why fear it?
Why shroud it in silence?
Why hush the one absolute promise
life has always kept?
Whispered
Gently
2U
This piece invites us to confront the one truth no one escapes, so we might finally start living with intention, not illusion.
Cadmus Elissa May 11
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.
This poem is a quiet tribute to self-reliance, the strength found not in others, but in one’s own steady presence. The “other hand” is a metaphor for the part of us that endures without applause, comforts without condition, and rises when everything else falls away.
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.
Poetry is rarely a ledger of joy. Across major collections, nearly 70–80% of poems carry sadness, bitterness, or reflection, while only 20–30% attempt joy. We don’t write because we’re happy -  we write because we’re haunted.
Cadmus Elissa May 11
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.
Some warnings come not as words but as aches, sharp, sudden, undeniable. Yet the human spirit, ever stubborn, often chooses pain over the unknown. This is a confession of that choice.
We almost made it...
through storms, through silence,
through every soft apology
... we only whispered in our minds.

Now the house still holds our echoes,
but not our warmth.
And the bed is just a treaty
signed in tired backs and shallow breathing.

We weren’t broken.
Just bent too far
to remember how to bend back.
Intimacy doesn’t always shatter, it often softens into absence, a quiet fading of what once felt infinite.
⛈️

When she left,
she left like rain,
Soft regret,
a touch of pain.

A fleeting storm
you live right through,
A wound, the light
can filter through.

Then she walked through someone’s door,
She shook the walls,
she split the floor.

What seemed to him like gentle air
Became a firestorm
unaware.
A woman broken is not a woman ended. She leaves as a whisper, but pain reforges her into something untamed. What once loved gently can return with teeth. This is not vengeance… it’s evolution.
There’s always one
unfinished sentence
in every goodbye.

A truth that catches
in the back of the throat
and never makes it out alive.

You smiled.
You nodded.
You let the moment pass.

But something in your eyes
lingered
like a name you meant to say
but swallowed.

And I’ve been wondering since:
Was it fear
that kept you quiet
or was I never meant
to know?

What is the thing you almost said, but never could?
We all have that one moment we replay, the words we didn’t say. This poem asks you to revisit yours... not for regret, but for release.
Cadmus Elissa Apr 30
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.
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?
This poem is a call to return to the essence of manhood , not the caricature shaped by culture, but the primal design etched by nature: protector, builder, thinker, and storm-bearer. It glorifies masculinity not as *******, but as deeply rooted presence and purpose.
~ 💋 ~

She speaks in silk,
moves like sin,
Draws grown men like moths within.

A kiss,
a sigh,
a flash of thigh
And just like that, they’re begging why.

She toys with hearts,
delights in screams,
Turns pride to dust,
and love to dreams.

No blood,
no blade,
just one slow lean…

And down it falls,
- the Velvet Guillotine -

~ 💋 ~
A tribute to the femme fatale archetype, sensual, untamed, and devastating by design. Not every execution needs a sword; some wear satin.
🙏🏻

They feast with the wolves…

Bark with with the dogs…

Weep with the shepherds…

Guests at every table,

but a pillar at none.

Call them seasonal?
Situational?

Maybe,
Socially fluent? morally absent?

Friends to everyone…
and loyal to no one.

☝️
This poem reflects the nature of surface-level friendships. those who adapt to every group but commit to none. Present in moments of ease, absent in moments of need.
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.
This poem imagines a primordial dispute between Zeus, the god of the sky and supreme ruler of Mount Olympus, and Hades, the ruler of the Underworld. Drawing from Greek mythology, it dramatizes the eternal tension between aspiration and mortality. Zeus representing human ambition, creation, and divine light, while Hades symbolizes the inescapable truth of death, fate, and the unseen. Together, they mirror the dual nature of human existence: the pursuit of greatness shadowed by inevitable decline. In this imagined myth, mankind is not shaped by one god alone, but forged in the tension between hope and ending.
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