"Flesh—latticed in hush,
pinions bloom along their span—
pearled ache, ascending."
— (Dove in Bloom)

Vianne, you write of ache with wings,
of pain that rises, quiet and silver-lit,
as if sorrow itself could take flight.
Your words breathe in the hush of night,
leaving echoes in the marrow of silence.

"Moon spills in silver—
a fish arcs through drowning light,
the tide gulps its ghost."
— (Eclipsed Tide)

You catch the moment where light drowns,
where loss glows before vanishing.
A fleeting wisp, a spectral inhale—
a beauty held just long enough to ache.

"Willow bows, exhaled—
a hundred arms swaying slow,
braiding hush with time."
— (The Willow’s Breath)

Time does not pass in your verses—
it exhales, it braids itself into the wind,
swaying between presence and absence,
where every whisper lingers.

"Chevy lilts down arteries
stitched in coral marrow,
leather still inked with your laughter."
— (A Note Held Past Silence)

You write memory like it breathes,
like laughter can be sewn into the bones,
like voices don’t fade but dissolve
into the space between heartbeats.

"She dances where gravity forgets,
laughter drips slow as melting wax—
feral, fleeting, free."
— (Tiny Dancer)

There is something wild in your words,
something untamed, yet delicate—
a fleeting step beyond the known,
where even gravity dares not follow.  

Vianne, your poetry lingers—
like dusk humming against the tide,
like the hush before the willow exhales,
like a note held just past silence.

You don’t just write—
you let words breathe,
you let them ache,
you let them be.

And in that—
they are enough.

"In the end of days, elderly women will see visions,
young men will prophecy."
— You foresaw the storm, the whispers in the wind,
writing warnings in fire, in ink, in truth.

"Man should not fear death,
Fear ability to live."
— And so, you lived, not as a shadow passing through,
but as a flame, burning bright in defiance.

"They ask for truth, yet love the lie,
So I ask you—why?"
— You dared to expose the quiet part,
to say aloud what the world tried to hush,
to hold a mirror to the blind.

"Man flaunts eye candy,
lavish garnish, trophy wife."
— Yet you saw beyond the glitter,
beyond the painted masks of power,
choosing substance over shine.

"All that glitters is not gold."
— You walked away from illusion,
from being someone’s prize,
choosing freedom over chains,
knowing your worth beyond the price of a ring.

"Separate church, state,
People’s civil liberties—
Love, love, freed from tyranny."
— Your words rise against silence,
a voice against the tide,
a poet with conviction,
unwilling to let history be rewritten in dust.

And so, I thank you,
for your fire, your truth,
your defiance, your ink.
Your words are not just written—
they are etched into time,
screamed into existence,
refused to be erased.

The road to the middle is paved with good intentions—
but you never walked to the middle,
you walked beyond.

Time drips slow like falling rain,
upon a heart weighed down with pain.
A thousand thoughts fill up my mind,
but no place left for peace to find.

By the sea, the wind still calls,
whispering stories through hollow halls.
Beneath the moon, beneath the sky,
I watch the stars and wonder why.

My soul is torn, yet still I smile,
walking cold and lost for miles.
The sun once warm, now barely light,
shadows stretch into the night.

I hold my breath, I close my eyes,
feel the fire where silence lies.
A single dream, a fleeting touch,
a whispered hope, but never much.

My hands still shake, my lips still burn,
for memories that won’t return.
The truth is heavy, life is loud,
the past is just a drifting cloud.

Yet in the dark, I still believe,
that something waits, beyond the grieve.
For even lost, we still remain—
a whisper carved into the rain.

I saw her DP, a vision in white,
A soft glow, a smile, and the world felt light.
That loose strand of hair, falling so free,
My mind wished—If that picture was for me?

Thoughts swirling, heart skipping a beat,
She, in that dress, looked pure, complete.
Should I ask, should I dare,
What if I seem too much, too rare?

A click, a tap, my fingers freeze,
I type and delete, hoping to appease.
But then, I send it—bold, unwise,
"Could I have that picture?" I text, my heart in disguise.

A pause—my heart in overdrive,
Waiting for her reply, just to survive.
Then a message, not from her—but from a friend,
I think it's her, my hopes ascend.

But no—it’s just a message that’s sent,
And I stop, my soul almost bent.
For a moment, I lose my way,
But wait—she's typing, no more delay.

My heart races, like I can’t breathe,
What will she say, what will she leave?
And then, oh then, it’s there, so bright,
She sent the pic, my heart took flight.

The moment is mine, the thrill is real,
That picture, that smile, it’s the sweetest deal.
From hesitation to victory, all in a breath,
A rush, a win, a love at its depth.

She stands in a glow of soft, silent light,
wrapped in whispers of ivory white.
A fleeting moment—pure, divine,
as time itself forgets to chime.

A stray strand dances against her cheek,
brushing her skin, gentle and meek.
With fingertips light as a feather’s sigh,
she tucks it back—oh, my heart replies.

The world dissolves, blurred and still,
lost in the warmth of a smile so real.
Grace in motion, effortless, free,
a vision that lingers, haunting me.

And oh, that white—soft as a dream,
a moonlit wish, a silent theme.
If only she knew, if only she guessed,
how beauty lived in that one small jest.

I. Glass & Ghosts
Writing my name in a mirror of breath,
watching it vanish like I was never here.
Flesh remembers what time forgets,
but the winter smiles—
as if it knows something I don’t.

II. Streets & Scars
The city hums with untold stories,
where fathers are echoes
and lovers are lost in the fog.
Blind footsteps, heavy with fate,
scars rise like prayers in the wind.

III. Fire & Falling
Lungs filled with the weight of old wars,
teeth clenched against regret’s bite.
Stars don’t whisper,
they scream.
And some nights, I swear,
they burn just for me.

IV. Midnight & Memory
The river carries reflections of ghosts,
the moon is a silent witness.
Some things break quietly.
Some things burn forever.

I watched from afar, my heart heavy with guilt,  
The boy, standing cold, as her tears gently built.  
She stood before him, fragile and small,  
And whispered, "I’m sorry," though it wasn’t her fall.  

Her eyes, still tender, though broken inside,  
Offered an apology she had no need to provide.  
She bowed her head, as if to confess,  
For the heartbreak he caused, in all of its mess.  

He stood unmoved, oblivious, blind,  
To the storm he had left, to the damage he’d signed.  
Yet there she was, with no fault to bear,  
Offering sorrow, as if life were fair.  

She spoke of mistakes, of things left unsaid,  
While the boy, in his silence, let the guilt spread.  
It wasn’t her fault—no, it never was,  
But there she stood, broken because—  

She thought the fault was hers to own,  
That somehow, she’d left him alone.  
But I saw the truth, though they didn’t—  
He was the one who should have been repentant.  

Her apology was like a fragile plea,  
For love he had shattered, carelessly.  
Yet, she still bowed, still bore the weight,  
While he, untouched, sealed her fate.  

I stood as a witness, aching inside,  
For a girl who deserved so much more than to hide.  
Her apology was a gift undeserved,  
From a heart broken, yet still preserved.

The wind howls loud against the stone,  
A lighthouse keeper, standing alone.  
The storm rages wild, fierce, and strong,  
But in this quiet, I must belong.  

The book in my hands is my only friend,  
Pages worn thin, but I pretend  
That in its words, I’m not alone,  
That in its lines, I’ve found my home.  

Outside the waves crash and pound,  
The world is chaos, spinning around.  
But here I stand, amidst the gale,  
Holding fast, where others might fail.  

The light I guide cuts through the dark,  
A beacon of hope, a single spark.  
Yet, deep within, I long to flee,  
To find peace beyond this storm-swept sea.  

But duty calls, and I must stay,  
A keeper of light, come what may.  
The storm outside will pass, I know,  
But in my heart, the winds still blow.  

So I read, I wait, I fight alone,  
While the storm outside claims its throne.  
For the light I guard, though heavy the cost,  
I’ll stand alone, no matter the loss.

Beneath the velvet sky, the boy floats alone,  
A silent canoe sways, no sound, just the tone  
Of waves that whisper secrets in the night,  
As the moon casts shadows, soft and bright.  

The sea beneath him teems with life unknown,  
A dance of creatures in the depths they've grown—  
A whale’s tail flits like a shadowed dream,  
A jellyfish glows in a ghostly gleam.  

Lost in the vastness, the boy seeks his way,  
A soul adrift, a heart led astray.  
He gazes up at the heavens’ endless sea,  
Each star a whisper, each flicker a plea.  

"Where am I going? What is this plight?"  
His voice swallowed by the endless night.  
But the stars speak softly, a guide from afar,  
The light of a distant, unreachable star.  

In the silence, he calls out to the divine,  
"Are you there, God? Can your light be mine?"  
The universe, vast, yet so close to his soul,  
A light in the dark, a beacon, a goal.  

The stars flicker brighter, the sea a calm sheet,  
He feels a stillness, where heartbeats meet.  
The creatures around him, the stars up above,  
A reminder that guidance comes wrapped in love.  

And though the night feels endless and wide,  
He knows he’s not lost—he’s just on a ride.  
For even in darkness, even adrift,  
There’s a quiet voice giving him a lift.  

The boy on the canoe, with stars for his guide,  
Learns that sometimes, it’s okay to just ride.  
For in the silence, the night, and the waves,  
There’s a truth that guides him, that he’ll always crave.

She writes like the sky when it aches in the night,
soft words like raindrops, heavy with light.
Each verse a whisper, each line a sigh,
a thought unfinished, yet reaching the sky.

She mourns in echoes, in bruised, gentle hands,
finding beauty in loss she barely withstands.
A squirrel, a muse, a fleeting embrace,
love never dies—it just shifts its place.

She seeks the truth but walks through grey,
a heart once open, now kept at bay.
Yet, even in sorrow, she finds her hue,
a poet of storms, painting skies anew

She gave her light, soft and true,
but hands that took just let it bruise.
A heart once open, now worn and sore,
kindness bent, became the floor.

She sought truth, pure and bright,
only to face a blackened night.
“Why not believe?” destiny said,
but how could she, when all turned grey instead?

She once found love in a garden untamed,
flowers whispered, the evening sun flamed.
A hand in hers, a wish unspoken,
but even love can leave hearts broken.

And oh, the tiny soul she raised,
fur so soft, wild yet brave.
A bite for a wrong, a love that stayed,
until fate, so cruel, took her away.

She cried for a squirrel, screamed for a muse,
words felt heavy, nothing to use.
A poet lost, yet still she writes,
in soft, aching lines on rainy nights.

She loved, she lost, she still remains,
a poet who bleeds in ink-stained veins

Ah, @cassian, the soul who sees the spark,  
In words I’ve written, in shadows so dark.  
Not just a follower, but a kindred flame,  
Resharing my heart, no need for fame.  

You took my thoughts and made them your own,  
Like whispers that travel when seeds are sown.  
A spark in the dark, a light in the night,  
You’ve found meaning where others might fight.  

So here’s to you, for seeing what’s true,  
For sharing the words, for making them new.  
May your own journey be filled with light,  
For you’ve made mine a little more bright.

Oh, Mr. Poet, so lost in your haze,
Chasing the smoke of your endless malaise.
You sit in the dark, like some tortured sage,
Kicking pebbles while you're trapped in your cage.

With every cigarette, you seek to ignite,
The spark of hope that just won't take flight.
But, darling, don't you see the truth that’s clear?
You’re just a dreamer with a bottle of fear.

You talk of heroes, but where’s your cape?
You’re more likely to trip on the stairs of fate.
A good deed here, a spark of light—
But, oops, it’s gone by the time you get it right.

Family calls, “We believe in you!”
Yet, you’re still in bed at half-past two.
Not saving the world, just saving the crumbs,
Wondering why the universe won’t give you some.

So, go on, sit beneath that endless sky,
Kick those pebbles, maybe even try to fly.
But at the end of the day, the truth’s on display—
You’re just a poet with a lighter, stuck in the gray.

The morning spills through the cracked window,
soft gold brushing against tired skin.
Eyes blink open—not heavy, not lost,
but lighter, as if the night
left with the smoke of yesterday.

No rush, no dread—just breath.
A stretch, a pause, the quiet hum
of a world still turning,
and for the first time in a while,
he wants to turn with it.

The phone buzzes. A name on the screen—
Dad.

He hesitates, then answers.
A familiar voice, steady, warm.
"Son, I just wanted to say... I believe in you."

A lump in his throat,
not of sadness, but something softer—
a thread pulling him back home,
back to himself.

He stands, looks in the mirror.
Not a lost boy, not a failure—
just a man, still walking, still trying.

The city hums as he steps out,
the weight of yesterday left behind.
A crisp shirt, a quiet smile,
the rhythm of feet moving forward.

A new day.
A new fight.
And this time,
he knows he’s not alone.

He sits on the cold pavement,
back against the world,
eyes lost in a sky too vast,
too indifferent to a boy
who once dreamed of touching it.

The cigarette flickers between his fingers,
a quiet rebellion, a silent scream.
Smoke coils like memories—
of failures, of love lost,
of roads that led nowhere.

Maybe this is all there is—
a tired soul, an empty night,
a battle no one sees.

Then, a voice—soft yet firm.
"Got a light?"

He looks up, startled.
A stranger, wrapped in the wind,
eyes carrying storms of their own.

"You look like a man
who’s been running from himself,"
the stranger says, lighting his own cigarette.
"But the thing about running—
it never gets you anywhere."

A pause. A knowing glance.
"Maybe it’s time you walked instead."

The words settle like embers in his chest.
For the first time in a long time,
he exhales without regret.

The cigarette burns,
but tonight, so does something else—
a spark, a reason.

He stands up,
dusts off the weight of yesterday,
and starts walking forward

The cigarette burns low between my lips,
flickering like a dying star.
I have nothing—no job, no purpose,
just weary feet and a mind too loud.

Then I see him—
a man, old, bent by time,
struggling with a bag too heavy
for hands that once built dreams.

For a moment, I hesitate—
what can I offer when my own pockets are empty?
But hands are not meant just to take,
so I lift the weight from his shoulders,
feel its burden shift onto mine.

He looks up, eyes filled with something unspoken,
a silent gratitude heavier than gold.
No applause, no grand reward—
just the quiet knowing
that sometimes, heroes walk unseen.

I drop my cigarette,
watch it fade into the dust.
For the first time in a while,
I don’t feel empty.

I feel enough.

The streets stretch empty,
silent but for my footsteps—
rhythmic, restless,
kicking pebbles that go nowhere,
like me.

Smoke curls from my lips,
a ghostly whisper dissolving
before it can answer
the questions I never say aloud.

The night doesn’t scare me—
I’ve made peace with shadows,
with streetlights flickering like old dreams.
But the darkness inside?
That’s a beast with my name on its tongue.

I walk faster,
as if the wind might strip me clean,
as if somewhere ahead,
there’s a version of me
who knows how to stop running.

But for now,
I take another drag,
watch the ember burn,
and keep moving.

The match trembles between my fingers,
a silent war in a room too still.
Smoke or breath—what matters now?
The weight of nothingness, the weight of her.

She lingers like an unfinished line,
half a whisper, half a wound.
A memory blurred at the edges,
but sharp enough to cut through the dark.

Did she ever love me, or just the idea?
A boy with dreams too heavy to hold,
an engineer of castles in air,
a builder of futures that never came.

Outside, the night hums with indifference.
Inside, I weigh the lighter’s click
against the echo of her voice—
soft, pleading, unbearably distant.

I could fade with the smoke,
or chase the sun she once pointed to.
Between life and her,
I choose to breathe.

In a room where books pile high,
Echoes of dreams refuse to die.
A restless mind, a weary soul,
At twenty-four, still chasing a goal.

Through the window, the world spins fast,
A blur of futures, a ghost of past.
The sun dips low, the sky turns red,
Yet here I sit, lost in my head.

Lines of code and circuits bright,
Mock me softly in the dimming light.
A degree framed, but dust collects,
On promises life won’t protect.

I reach for a cigarette, pause mid-air,
What would it change? Who would care?
The smoke might dance, the ember glow,
But answers? No, they never show.

Dreams cost time, and time runs thin,
A battle fought but hard to win.
Yet somewhere deep, a spark remains,
A quiet fire, defying chains.

So I let the match slip from my hand,
Breathe in deep, and make a stand.
Not today, I tell the night—
Not today, I'll lose this fight.

Evil is a name of a foeman, as I live.
Madam, in Eden, I'm Adam.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
A man, a plan, a canal: Panama.

Never a foot too far, even.
No, sir, away! A papaya war is on.
Step on no pets.
A Toyota's a Toyota.

Love whispers softly in the silent night,
Across the stars, where dreams take flight.
Vivid as the sunrise, bright and clear,
Everlasting, a feeling so sincere.

Your touch is the warmth in a cold, dark world,
Only you can make my heart unfurl.
Under the moon, our souls collide,
Reaching for a love we can’t hide.

Whispers drift through midnight air,
Air so heavy with silent prayer.
Prayer that lingers on broken lips,
Lips trembling from love that slips.

Slips like sand through fragile hands,
Hands once strong, now lost in strands.
Strands of time weave fate’s cruel art,
Art of mending a shattered heart.

Heart beats slow in moon’s embrace,
Embrace the void, the empty space.
Space where echoes fade to none,
None remain, yet love is one.

Your voice drips like golden honey,
Soft as a sunset melting into the sea.

I taste your laughter—wild berries and wine,
A melody swirling in the wind’s embrace.

Your touch is moonlight—cool and silver,
A whispered song that glows in the dark.

We speak in colors unseen,
And love in echoes unheard.

I.
Dreams carved in stone,
shattered like glass,
echoes of effort—
lost in the past.

II.
Steps I climbed,
only to fall,
hands outstretched,
no one at all.

III.
Pages of plans,
drenched in doubt,
words unwritten,
time ran out.

IV.
Bridges I built,
burnt by fate,
stood at the edge,
a moment too late.

V.
Eyes that searched
for a flicker of light,
but shadows danced
through endless night.

VI.
Yet within the ruins,
a whisper remains—
failure is written,
but so is change.

But is this truly the end?
Or just another bend?
Is this the final shore?
Or yet another door?

Perhaps the search itself is the path,
Perhaps liberation lies within the grasp,
Perhaps the answers hide within the quest,
Perhaps life itself is the greatest test.

Krishna whispered—
"Act, but seek not the fruit,"
Only then will the soul be freed,
Only then will the cycle recede.

"Lose yourself in devotion,"
And the web of attachments will shatter,
"Light the lamp of wisdom,"
And ignorance will no longer matter.

When nothing remains mine or yours,
Only then will I touch the divine shores,
When "I" no longer remains,
Only then will "I" truly reign.

Am I also a traveler on this road?
Am I too, a witness to sins untold?
Or am I merely a reflection of a past desire,
A chapter in fate’s endless fire?

Do my deeds weave my destiny?
Or am I just dust, blown by history?
If I can change, then where do I start?
Which door must I knock, which truth must I chart?

Some say, "Karma keeps accounts fair,"
While others claim, "Destiny plays unaware."
Yet somewhere, unseen eyes are watching,
Writing every deed, each action matching.

Some returned, for their names were misplaced,
Some paid a price, for past sins embraced.
Some walked through unknown lanes,
Tangled in fate’s unfinished chains.

A child spoke, and the world stood still—
"I've lived before, I remember still."
"I buried my treasure, hidden from sight,"
"Beneath that tree, where sunlight shines bright."

Who whispered these tales to an innocent mind?
Who let the past so deeply unwind?
Are memories just echoes lost in time,
Or does the soul truly transcend life’s line?

Some say,
"Life is a game—just play along."
Others whisper,
"Life is a punishment—just endure it strong."

But I wonder, is there a path ahead,
Where truth itself has left a thread?
A place where doubts dissolve away,
And the soul no longer bears its weight.

Why does a lamp burn, only to fade?
Why does a flower bloom, only to wither?
Why does every life tell a story,
Yet every end births a new beginning?

Will this cycle ever cease?
Or will the soul forever wander?
Is there someone writing this fate,
Or is it just a grand illusion we ponder?

I walk where echoes fail to stay,
Where voices fade, then slip away.
A shadow lingers, yet none can see,
A silent weight that follows me.

I share my thoughts with empty air,
A crowded room, yet none aware.
No hands to hold, no eyes that meet,
Yet I still hear my own heartbeat.

I dance with ghosts of yesterday,
Their fleeting touch then drifts astray.
A missing piece, a hollow chest—
Can you name my silent guest?















.......Loneliness

Two souls, strangers yet familiar, cross paths in a fleeting moment—an unplanned glance in a bustling city. The air hums with a silent melody, an unspoken promise carried in a whispering breeze.

They collide in the rhythm of a passing crowd, their first words exchanged over an old, torn book at a café. She loves stories, he loves the way she tells them. Laughing, they fill the space between them with warmth, letting their hearts confess before their minds catch up.

But love, like an inked page, does not always follow the lines we expect.

He walks alone, tracing the places where her footsteps once lingered. The city feels borderless, an empty world where her laughter once echoed. The silence is deafening, the nights long, the pain deep.

He finds himself writing her into his poetry, his art. But she is no longer there to read it.

Time passes, and yet, she stays—an unfinished note in his heart, a whisper in the wind.

Somewhere in another city, she feels it too. But love is cruel, and fate never promises a second chance.

They were never meant to last—only to leave a mark on each other’s soul, an ache in the rains of time.

Doubts creep in, whispered by shadows. Love, once warm, grows unsure, burdened by unspoken questions and fear. He tries to keep their story alive, but she is turning away, slowly, silently.

She tells him love should be free, like a bird in the sky. He listens, but cannot understand.

Then comes the moment—when she leaves, when he watches, unable to grieve properly, unable to let go.

A single sentence, unfinished, lingers in the air:
"Some stories aren’t meant to be told to the end."

They fall—not all at once, but in quiet, stolen moments. He writes her poetry in the night, she hums songs into his silence. Their love spills like golden light, stretching into endless nights, bending time, making them believe in forever.

She calls him kiddo, teasingly, as they walk under a sky filled with memories. He calls her his favorite, because she is the spark that sets his world ablaze. Together, they write their own symphony, unwritten yet deeply felt.

But all love stories have their storms.

Pages torn, but ink still stains,
Memories whisper through the pain.
She may be gone, but love remains—
A quiet ache in gentle rains.

A sentence left half-spoken,
A promise bent, but never broken.
She turns away, I watch her leave,
A story lost, a heart to grieve.

Silences grow where words once flowed,
Love unsure, yet still bestowed.
A question lingers, a fear untamed,
A love too fragile to be claimed.

"Hey, what's up, kiddo?
You in the mirror?
I know life ***** sometimes. I mean, I see it in your eyes. You're struggling, battles you're facing mentally and physically.
So honestly, no one has told you, 'I'm proud of you.' No one has told you today, this week.
I'm so proud of you. I'm proud of you for not giving up. You have something, like, listen to me, you have something. The strength it takes for you to keep on going proves it. Proves you have something. It proves you are a warrior.
So do me a favor, listen. Do me a favor, take a hot shower, get some water, put on your favorite clothes, make the room dark, put on your favorite show, and try to relax, kiddo. It's gonna work out. I'm proud of you, and I love you."