The meek nestles into the dark,
where power hums like a distant storm,
where strength, sharp-edged and waiting,
does not strike, does not break.

It does not cower.
It does not beg.

Fragility leans into force,
where dominion is not destruction
but a burden, a silence, a choice.

The strong does not devour.
The strong does not yield.

Between them, an understanding—
not spoken, not sworn,
but written in breath,
in the weight of stillness,
in the knowledge that power alone
withers without something to shelter,
and meekness alone
shatters without something to bear it.

The world does not see the balance,
but they do,
and so, for now,
they remain—unchallenged,
unbroken.

I heard them—
low voices curling through the dark,
soft as breath, sharp as broken glass.
I wasn’t supposed to hear.
But I did.

My name—
slipped from their mouths like a secret too heavy,
like a blade drawn slow.
And suddenly,
the walls felt too close,
the air too thick,
the space between us, a battlefield.

I knew what this was.
I’d seen the signs.
The hush when I entered,
the careful glances,
the way the night swallowed their words whole.

I knew—
I knew.

So I lunged.
Didn’t hesitate, didn’t breathe,
just cut.
Words like wildfire,
rage like a flood,
my voice a wrecking ball crashing through their quiet.

And then—
stillness.

No fight.
No denial.
Just eyes wide, hands empty,
hearts bleeding from wounds they never saw coming.

A gift, they said.
A surprise, they said.
A moment of joy,
crushed beneath the weight of my fear.

And suddenly, I am the villain.
The shadow in the room.
The storm where there should have been sun.

I built a monster out of whispers,
let it crawl into my bones,
let it tell me the only story I wanted to hear.

And now, here I stand,
watching trust turn to dust,
watching love fade into silence,
watching them walk away—

because I never thought to ask
before I chose to burn.

There are days when the world is dim,
when the weight of time presses heavy,
and the sky whispers in muted grays—
but then, there is you.

You, with laughter spun like sunlight,
weaving warmth into my weary soul.
Your touch—soft as morning’s first glow—
turns the dust of days to gold.

Every smile you gift me, a coin of joy,
pressed into the treasury of my heart.
Every embrace, a gilded promise,
that even in the dark, we shine.

Time may steal the luster from youth,
may weather our hands with silver,
but the gold we share fades—
it deepens, it strengthens, it remains.

So if the world should turn to shadow,
if years should try to dim our light,
know this: I will always hold onto you,
for you are my gold—forever bright.

To fly,
That’s what I wish.
Never again to be struck
By a switch.
Never again to be tossed
In a ditch.
Never to swallow my pain,
Flinch at the sting on my lip.

A promise was made,
A cold-cut claim—
"Love me forever,"
Then leave me abandoned,
Broken, and shamed.
Not throwing blame,
Admitting our faults
Is the hardest thing.
You'd rather live with disdain.

Maybe it’s me.
Could it be me?
Maybe I'll see it,
Come to my senses,
The honorable thing.
Letting go,
Then dropping the curtain.
No weight, no chains—
I am free.

I am free.

I am free.

Allow me to explain.
Outside, the sky weeps with silver threads,
but it is not truly raining.
The ground is dry beneath my feet,
yet I swear, I feel myself drowning.

In reality—
It is not the storm that chills me,
but the absence of warmth once promised.
Not the wind that carves my bones,
but the silence where your laughter should be.

My zinc winter
clangs hollow where your voice once rang,
a dull, muted season rusted in regret.
The frost bites, not with fangs, but with longing,
etching your name in the breath of the glass.

Is missing
a thaw, a bloom, a sky unstained by memory.
The ache of frozen hands reaching
for what has already melted away.

Your blue spring—
a color I can no longer find,
an echo of something soft and radiant,
like the first petal that dares to rise
from the ruin of winter’s hands.

Tell me,
is it raining where you are?

Sickness.
A middle ground between
A life worth living
And a life sequestered
From the worth
Of living.

Hallowed be thy strength,
Calling forth a certainty
That life will remain.
Preserved, teaching
Lessons of perseverance,
Stagnation and decay.

If only strength
Was strong enough to
Keep sickness at bay.
Falter faster, with ease,
Conveying a simple,
Yet efficient mean.

Time slips, memories fade.
Strength gives in,
An internal raid
Fills the void
With a void,
Yet how surprising

When you were never loved.

In London’s fog, so dimly lit,
Where gaslight shadows softly flit,
Albert Crowe, unseen, did tread
The backstage world where dreams are fed.
By day, a hand upon the stage,
By night, alone with silent rage,
Within his room, his heart’s lament
Beneath the guise of merriment.

A lonely soul in twilight’s gloom,
His life a cycle, toil his doom,
Yet spring brought change with sweet Eliza’s face,
A star whose light his dark would chase.
Her voice like bells, her smile bright,
That cut through shadows of the night,
But admiration soon would turn
To darker flames that fiercely burn.

His heart, once filled with gentle views,
Now tracked her steps, her smiles perused;
From fascination grew a need
That festered into darkened greed.
In corridors, he’d plan to meet,
With props misplaced, and whispers sweet,
Yet every smile she’d cast aside
Drove deeper still the thorns of pride.

When autumn’s chill brought spectral play,
He chose this scene to make her stay.
A dagger hidden, curtain’s call—
This hallowed eve would see it all.
In her chamber, quiet, dim,
He spoke of love, his voice so grim.
A blade, a ******, a scream did rise,
A final look in frightened eyes.

With horror, what his hands had wrought,
The chaos of a twisted thought.
He fled the scene, his soul unbound,
Her spectral screams the only sound.
By guilt and visions sorely pressed,
In nightly haunts, he found no rest.
Each day a play, each smile a mask,
In sorrow’s light, he’d daily bask.

One night, upon the stage, he stood,
Clad in the hero’s garb and hood.
The crowd, unaware of coming doom,
Watched silent in the gathering gloom.
He spoke, his voice a hollow shell,
Of love and loss, of heaven and hell:
“Behold a man, by darkness driven,
To seek his peace, to be forgiven.

“My heart was lost, my soul misled,
By dreams of love that now are dead.
For in my grasp, a deed so dire,
Has quenched the light of passion’s fire.
O Eliza, sweet and fair,
Your ghost now haunts my every prayer.
No longer can this heart be still,
Tonight, I end this tragic thrill.

“So listen now, as curtains close,
On final acts, on bitter woes.
With this blade that once did part,
The life and breath of my own heart,
I take my leave, my soul to free,
From chains of mortal agony.
May angels guide me where I roam,
And lead my spirit safely home.”

With that, he turned the blade to chest,
In death’s embrace, he sought his rest.
The curtain fell, the crowd in tears,
Reflecting on his haunted years.
Silence reigned, the theatre still,
A tale of woe, of mortal ill.
On vaudeville’s stage, a shadow cast,
A love, a life, a breath—his last.