she inquires why I write so many poems,
easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living,
it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation
of who I am...a miner of the
mineral wealth in my veins

She walked through life as if running isn’t enough
Her palms were filled with absence
Her nights heavy with unfinished words

She knew it wasn’t the end—
Only another bruise of time
Another echo she had to forgive

To graze within this end
Was to cradle sorrow like a fading rose
Bleeding beauty into silence

And still she chose—
to make life bloom—
when the moon glares at her doom
To smile even when forever ends


Erennwrites

I am a vulture
and time is my prey
If it flies, I fly

faster, if it's past
I devour it
in my mind

digesting the flesh
of my experiences
and wearing out my body

until my beak is too weak
and time escapes
to its final ending

Love calls the heart to trust and grow,
Love is fresh, it’s always new.
Let go, be free, embrace the unknown,
For love is felt when hearts are shown.
And love will bloom eternally.

You call them forth with gentle lies,
But I am truth behind their cries.
You urge them on to leap and trust,
While I remind them—dreams turn dust.
And I will guard them, eternally.

While you tempt with promises so fleet,
Love guides them to truths, slow and sure.
Love, not illusion, makes hearts complete,
And blooms eternal, deep and pure.

You paint with light, with colors bright,
But I am shadow veiled in night.
You sing of joy, of hearts unchained,
Yet I recall what loss has stained.
And I will linger, eternally.

Love may rise where doubt still lingers,
Soft as whispers, light as fingers.
Through night and shadow, hearts will fight,
For every loss still births new light.
And love will stand—unyielding, eternal.

life is full of tragedies,
life is full of scares,
life is full of sadness,
life is full of pain,
life is full of lines,
some good some bad,
everyone say look for the silver line,
some times it feels like there is none,
life is full of hope,
life is full of change,
life is full trails,
life is life,
you cant change it,
it always end the same.

She was drawing,
not for anyone.
Not even for herself.

Just…
  because her hands needed to move.
The pencil didn’t ask for approval.
It didn’t perform.
It just followed
 whatever was humming
  beneath her skin.

I’ve seen someone dance
 in the middle of cleaning.
Not to music.
Just to rhythm.

A private conversation
 between body and gravity
     where
      I was only
       accidentally
             invited.

There’s a holiness
 in the movements people make
  when they don’t know they’re being seen.

Not holy because they’re beautiful.
But because they’re untranslated.

They’re not trying to mean something.
They just are.

I’ve started collecting these moments.
Not in pictures.
Not in notes.
Just
  in the place behind my ribs
  where wonder stays
  when it’s too quiet to name.