Into darkness carry fire
when all seems grim, and bleak, and dire,
When shadows loom and hope retreats,
Let not your spirit know defeat,

Through the night, when fears conspire,
Let your heart be a burning pyre,
With every step in the abyss,
Hold fast to dreams, onwards persist,

In storms of sorrow, in waves of pain,
Tend your flame through wind and rain,
When in the dark and facing foes,
Be the light, the torch, the glow,

Though the world may tear and tire,
Keep your spirit ever higher,
Against the tide and through the mire,
Into darkness carry fire.

The mountains keep their secrets well—
in their silence, they bear the grief of stone,
the centuries pressed into stillness,
each stratum a tale of what once was
and what shall ever be.
One looks upon them and thinks,
they have never known what it is to fall.
But does one not hear them groan
beneath the weight of themselves,
the way they shift in the night
like old men turning in their slumber?

Each crack in the rock does whisper
of pressures unseen, tectonics
of ancient sorrows long since stilled.
In this, they are alike to us:
holding fast to the unspoken,
wearing their jagged edges
as though they have no need of gentleness.
But hark—does one hear it?

The way the wind grazes their faces,
how even the stone does yield to that
which is so soft it has no name.

We come to them burdened,
bearing the weight of days
like a sack of heavy stones,
each one a moment believed
to be the end of something vital.

We hold them close, believing
they are all we have—
these small griefs that anchor us
to the ground we tread upon.

But the mountains know
what we have not yet learned—
that every stone shall one day
become dust,
every peak worn smooth
by the selfsame wind
that now does caress the face.
We are not less for this,
nor are we more.

We are but the shape
life has taken to know itself,
to feel, in this brief span,
the vastness of what it means
to be.

Consider this:
the stars, too, shall perish,
and yet their light does wander
the corridors of space,
filling the night long after
they have burned themselves out.
We are no different.
What we are now, in this moment
of small sorrow, shall pass.

It is not the end,
but a whisper in the vastness

of what we are yet to become.
So let the mountains speak to us.

Let them tell how even they
must break and bow to time,
how their strength lies not in
holding firm, but in the slow
unfolding of their edges
to the universe's touch.

We are not small,
nor are we infinite.

We are the echo
of all that has ever been
and all that shall ever be.

Listen, and one shall hear
how the mountains weep
not because they are broken,
but because they are becoming.

                                                  And so are we.

-                                        I've spent so many hours
                                         underneath this sky,
                                                         Lamenting,
        The days between pass by me
         one by one, ah,
         Unrelenting,
                      They've all been the same,
                                       You see,
                Since you left this world behind,
      But I look for you in the starlight,
                    As your voice plays in my mind.

There is a house
on the edge of the world,
where the wind forgets its name.
It does not welcome travelers;
it devours them,
pulling their stories
into the walls,
where they rattle like leaves
trapped in glass jars.

No one built this house.
It grew.
Its beams are the ribs
of something that never learned to die,
its windows open not to air
but to the sighs of lost seasons.
Even the sun’s gaze
glances off its roof,
afraid to linger.

The door isn’t locked,
but it resists touch—
a surface too smooth,
like skin stretched
over something restless beneath.
Still, you knock,
your knuckles trembling
as the sound folds into silence.

Inside, the rooms shift
when you look away.
A hallway grows longer
with each step,
its floorboards breathing softly,
as though the house is inhaling
your unease.
The walls ache with the weight
of unsaid things.

In the center of the house,
there is a room
with no corners,
its shape dissolving
as you try to name it.
Here, the wind gathers.
Not the wind you know—
not the playful breeze
or the feral howl—
but the discarded breaths
of all who came before you.

You see their faces in the wallpaper,
their mouths frozen mid-sentence,
their eyes half-lidded
like clocks stopped
between seconds.
They whisper your name,
though you have not spoken it.

You try to leave,
but the house will not permit it.
It swallows your footsteps,
its floors growing soft
as the wind begins to rise.
It presses into your chest,
pulling at the corners
of your voice,
stealing the words
before they can shape themselves.

And then you know.
The house eats the wind
because the wind carries memory,
and memory tastes of the living.
It feeds on the forgotten,
the untold,
the silences that stretch
between what was
and what will never be.

When you vanish,
as you must,
the house will grow another door,
another room to catch the wind.
Someone else will come.
They always do.

...or at least, I pray, the strength to bear the knowledge."




A lifetime of hardship
        weighs down on my shoulders,

  I've buried my hate,
                             but it keeps getting colder,

Cry out to the heavens, sky's beauty unfurled-
While I commune, here, with Atlas
           beneath the weight of the world.

I once walked the world  
                                           with open arms,  
my hands stretched w  i  d  e like branches.  

a canopy to shelter the lost.  
a refuge for the clumsy and blind.  

But the world pressed too hard,  

                      too often,  

and my leaves tore beneath its careless weight.  

So I became the thorn instead.  
Soft wood splintered,  
                         sap dried  
                                     to amber shields,  
and the shade I offered  
                                           withered.  

Now my arms are briars,  
worn close to my chest,  
                     curled into a hedge  
                                    the foolish do not cross.  

The world is full of stumbling fools,  
        drunken moths crashing into flames  
                      of their own kindling.  

They scorch themselves  
                                         on their own sparks,  
and still, they scream at the fire  
                                    as though it were cruel  
                                    for burning.  

I watch them now  
                       from a quiet distance,  
my roots deep, my bark hardened,  
knowing no vine will wrap around me  
                            without bleeding.  

It is not hatred that keeps me,  

                                              but weariness—  

the wisdom to know  
that the soft are devoured  
                               by the teeth of the indifferent.  

The world does not deserve my kindness.  
It spills its recklessness  
                                 like broken wine,  
drenching the soil in its waste,  
and waits for hands to clean it.  

But I have burned those hands  
                                       to ash and bone.  

Now I walk with thorns in my shadow,  
each step a warning,  
                      each word a needle  
                                         laced with restraint.  

Let the world tear itself apart.  
                       I am no longer here  
                                      to sew its seams.

    The world bites without thinking,
                                   and I will not be chewed.

Water holds no loyalties to memory.  
It will swallow your name whole,  
Churn it into a language  
Only stones can decipher,  
Then spit it out as foam—  
A frothy eulogy  
No one asked for.  

It moves like betrayal dressed in silk,  
Soft to the touch  
But sharp enough to carve bones into weapons.  
Do not mistake its stillness for mercy.  
Even in its quiet,  
It dreams of drowning cities  
And filling lungs with liquid sermons.  

Water does not mourn.  
It erases.  
It is the great unmaker,  
Pulling the faces of lovers,  
The hands of mothers,  
And the footprints of gods  
Into its endless, churning womb.  

I’ve seen it carry grief like a crown,  
Rivers wearing the ashes of cathedrals  
And the charred wood of promises  
As though they were jewels.  
And yet, it forgets.  
It will forget you,  
Just as it forgot the mountains that once knelt to it,  
Just as it forgot the villages  
That tried to tame its chaos.  

Drink from it if you dare.  
It will not quench your thirst;  
It will bloom in your throat,  
A garden of salt and regret,  
Each drop a seed of storms.  

Even the sky cannot hold it.  
When water falls,  
It claws its way back to the earth,  
Filling every crack with its liquid hunger.  
It breaks its mirrors on the surface,  
Each shard a fractured memory  
It refuses to keep.  

It whispers,  
But it never listens.  
You could spill your secrets into it,  
And it would carry them away  
Not as treasures, but as burdens.  
It does not care.  
It has no need for your pain.  

Water is the poet of forgetting,  
Writing its verses on the soft shores of time,  
Then dragging the sand away grain by grain  
Until no trace remains.  
It cannot love you.  
It cannot hate you.  
It only exists to move forward,  
Always forward,  
Toward an ocean that never knew your name.