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.

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

In the soft glow of your sorrow,
where the sun fades, and shadows follow,
I see the tender ache in your verse,
each line a whisper, a silent curse.

“Seems Endless,” you write, and the moon listens,
reflecting the tears that your soul glistens.
In the night’s embrace, you break, you bend,
hoping the darkness would never end.

In Missed Connection, your heart speaks loud,
a love lost, yet covered by a shroud.
“I would trade my life for another day,”
for a smile that once chased your clouds away.

Guilt weighs heavy in your heart’s core,
a stain that no tears can restore.
But your words are rich, like wine aged deep,
capturing the pain that makes us weep.

In The Cost, you share the price of love,
how dreams shatter, pushed and shoved.
Yet in your heart, you still hope, still give,
for in your sorrow, we all learn to live.

You say it’s Too Late to turn back time,
yet in your regret, there’s beauty sublime.
To let go of love, to feel that sting,
a silent price that time cannot bring.

Love’s Altruism, you so plainly say,
is not in promises, but in the day-to-day.
To give with no return, to let love flow,
a lesson in grace that we all should know.

Jess, in every word you breathe,
there’s a truth that we all believe.
Your pain is poetry, your sorrow a song,
in the melody of life where we all belong.

"Becoming more me"
a whisper rising from the depths,
where silence births creation’s glow,
where poetry finds breath.

"Words out of nowhere flow in me",
you paint the night with untamed thought,
a soul that lingers, sleepless, bright,
where dawn and ink are caught.

"Still upward in this journey I be",
climbing where the fog is deep,
where sorrow walks but faith remains,
where echoes softly weep.

"Love drifts, lost inside some emotion",
embers flicker, then ignite,
falling into tear-streaked eyes,
turning darkness into light.

"Bringing out more of me",
your voice is both the storm and sky,
your poetry a lantern’s glow
when heavy shadows lie.

Weeping Willow, your words move like rivers,
unfolding between stillness and storm.
Each verse a pulse, each thought a breath,
a melody where the soul is reborn.
If you find these words, may they be a mirror,
reflecting the beauty you bring to the world.

In shadows of 2020, your words still linger,
Soft whispers that dance on time's gentle finger.
Like the mystical sky that weeps with grace,
Your verses drip softly, leaving no trace.

Your tears, they seeped through the lines we read,
Like radiance that persists, a light we need.
Where have the unraveled scars gone to hide,
Those marks of growth, where truths collide?

Your mysterious mists still haunt the air,
With empty promises and unspoken care.
Where is the dream that once flew so free,
Like jellyfish effloresce, drifting to be?

The curves of heaven, the grain of truth—
Your words once captured both youth and proof.
Now silence remains where the cursed night drifts,
Where your wobbled strokes once found their shifts.

Where are the glorious jams of your art?
What stilled your pen, what made it depart?
For in your absence, your poetry stays,
Like a mark left behind, lingering always.

We wait for your voice to rise once more,
To hear your spirits and the world you explore.
So tell me, dear poet, where have you been?
Will your ink ever rise, to dance again?

Your words arrive like echoes deep,
A whisper soft, a vow to keep.
"Be the best," you gently write,
A spark, a hope, a guiding light.

"Kind, caring, considerate"—
Each line a warmth deliberate.
To listen well, to hug, to see,
A kindness shaped in poetry.

You walk with thoughts and music near,
Till swans arrive, serene and clear.
"Spring is on her way," you say,
With nature’s touch in verse’s sway.

And when the world turns cold and gray,
You pen the truths none dare to say.
"Enough," you cry, "of power's reign,"
While hunger weeps in silent pain.

Yet still, in words, you find a way,
To turn the night into the day.
"Ideas awaken you softly,"
With whispers bold yet never costly.

So, poet bold, let verses flow,
For in your ink, the bright flames grow.
The world may waver, doubt, or bend,
But words like yours will never end.

At 5 a.m., the words arise,
like dawn-lit waves in endless skies.
Similes, whispers, metaphors bright,
Ideas stir before the light.

"For the youngest, for those to come,"
For dreamers crafting songs unsung.
"For today, for now, for peace,"
For kindness' touch that will not cease.

Boundaries drawn, firm and wise,
"Set them, hold them, let them rise."
Not all will stay, some will go,
But the poet knows—so it must flow.

Swans at sunset, drifting free,
Rodgers and Astaire upon the sea.
A melody hums, a chorus sings,
Does it hold truth? Does it have wings?

We once were blind, now we see,
Through lyric, verse, eternity.
The poet’s heart beats strong and fast,
A voice, a beacon—built to last.

I lost someone who still breathes,
But the heart that once knew them is hollow,
A ghost in a space where dreams should be,
Stuck between what was and what could follow.

A version of me never came to be,
A story left half-written,
In the silence of what was never said,
A love that was forbidden.

How do you grieve when the ending's unclear?
When they’re still here, but gone all the same,
When your soul is waiting, but they disappear,
Leaving only ashes and a forgotten name.

I stand in ruins of what almost was,
A place of longing, without a sound,
And though I pretend I’ve moved on,
I’m still here, waiting to be found.

She writes in whispers, in echoes that stay,
Carving lost names in the wind’s soft sway.
Her ink is sorrow, her verses bleed,
A requiem sung for the hearts that need.

"When someone who loves us fades away,"
She mourns the words we failed to say.
Regret clings tight in the hush of night,
Where silence weeps in the absence of light.

Yet love, in her hands, is vast and free,
A grand heist stolen from sky and sea.
"The sunset’s glow, so bold, so bright,"
She claims the stars, the waves, the light.
For love is not caged—it is wild, untamed,
A river that flows, never to be named.

She speaks of love beyond mere touch,
Of time-defying, endless trust.
"Love reshapes, rebuilds, redefines,"
She whispers of love that never confines.
A fire that burns yet does not consume,
A madness that dances beneath the moon.

And when she writes of power’s weight,
Of hands that build and hands that break,
She lays before us the choice of fate—
"Will you rule & hold position of power?
OR will you love, and set love free?"

Oh, poet of grief, of love, of fire,
Your words take flight, they never tire.
They carve their names on hearts unseen,
A melody woven in gold between.

If ever ink could outlive time,
It would be yours—sublime, divine.

She had a habit of noticing the moon.

No matter where we were—walking down a crowded street, sitting in a café, or even mid-conversation—her eyes would flicker upward the moment the sky darkened.

"Look at that," she’d whisper, pointing like it was some rare discovery, like the moon hadn’t been there every night before. But for her, it was always new. Always worth a pause.

I never paid much attention to it before her. The moon was just... the moon. A constant, unchanging presence. But when she looked at it, she saw something else—something soft, something worth noticing.

One night, we were walking home, our hands brushing but never quite holding. She stopped suddenly, tilting her head back, eyes shining in the silver glow.

"Doesn’t it make you feel small?" she asked.

I looked at her instead of the sky. "No," I said. "Not when I’m with you."

She smiled, shaking her head at my answer, but she never said anything more. Just slipped her arm through mine, and we walked on.

Time passed. She isn’t here anymore. Not beside me on evening walks. Not stopping mid-sentence to point at the sky.

But the moon is.

And now, without meaning to, I find myself looking up every night.

Out of habit. Out of memory.

Out of love.

The night hums a quiet tune,  
a melody lost between stars and sighs.  
Moonlight spills like silver ink,  
writing forgotten dreams on my skin.  

I chase echoes of a name I never spoke,  
woven in the hush of the wind.  
Footsteps dissolve in the sand,  
yet the tide carries them back—  
again, and again.  

Time bends where longing lingers,  
soft hands reaching for yesterday’s touch.  
But love, like mist,  
fades before fingers can hold it.  

So I gather the whispers,  
press them into my ribs,  
let them bloom beneath my breath—  
a garden of moments,  
eternal and unseen.

"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.

"A distant shore sang sonnets"
on the edge of twilight dreams,
where harmonies ride on sapphire tides,
and the world hums beneath moonbeams.

You paint the sky in tangerine sighs,
blushing clouds caught in secret play,
as if the sun flirts with the horizon—
a lover hidden at break of day.

"I drifted past the sunset,
where horizons make their place,"
You follow sparrows through olive trees,
scribbling wonder into time’s embrace.

The world blooms in your verses,
puppies play, fireflies dance,
even distant mountains lean in close,
swaying to your words’ romance.

"She lay on the beach,
the sun kissing her moist skin,"
A poet who flirts with the sunlight itself,
yet still finds beauty deep within.

Your lines are salt-kissed lullabies,
soft harmonies to warm the soul.
You turn nature’s breath into melodies,
with the gentlest touch, you make us whole.

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

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?

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The sea hums ancient songs,  
pulling me into its salt-laced poem.  
Barefoot, reckless, wild and free,  
I chase the whispers where mermaids flee.  

Your words are waves, restless and true,  
stirring tides in silent blue.  
Each line a shore where echoes meet,  
where longing and freedom softly greet.  

Does trust return on gentle wing,  
like birds that find their way to spring?  
Or once it’s lost, does it remain,  
a shadow cast, a lingering stain?  

Yet even shadows shift with time,  
stitched by light, unstitched by rhyme.  
Where trust has frayed, it learns to mend,  
worn, but never at its end.  

I am the wind, the desert breeze,  
the ocean spray and rustling leaves.  
I am the hush of dawn before the rise,  
the twilight’s breath as shadows creep.  

You are the sigh between each tide,  
a fleeting spark the stars confide.  
Unbound, untamed, you touch and go,  
carrying whispers only the wild will know.  

I am, and I am not,  
in the space between breaths.  
A shadow of light, a whisper of death,  
where time and breath are never what they seem.  

Between dream and wake, you weave a place,  
where fleeting moments leave no trace.  
Yet even as they slip and fade,  
the wind still knows the path you made.  

—For Nancy Maine, whose words wander like the sea and sing like the wind.  

And I—  
I listen close, where silence sways,  
where echoes breathe between the waves.  
For voices like yours never fade—  
they simply find new skies to claim.

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."

46 years—a story spun,
where words don’t age, but only run.
Through brittle bones and fleeting days,
your ink still shines in silvered ways.

A love that sparks in enthusiastic "HEY,"
a moment seized, no time to sway.
For what’s a life if not a chance,
to love, to lose, to dance in rain?

You write of loss, you write of pain,
yet make them sing in sweet refrain.
Even when time whispers “****, that’s old,”
your verses burn like fire to cold.

So tell me, poet, will you weave
more lines for hearts that ache, believe?
For every word you’ve let untwine,
I stand here reading, lost in rhyme.

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

Your words fall like rain on an aching earth,
soft, yet heavy—
each drop a link in the "chain" you carry,
"every word a new link, clink, clink, clink,"
dragging through echoes of silence.

You paint emotions raw, unfiltered, true—
“What’s wrong?” they ask,
but it’s just “easier” to smile,
to let the world see only what’s palatable,
while the storm brews behind closed doors.

Your poetry is the mirror no one wants to gaze into,
the "picture perfect" frame cracked,
the "jagged sharp broken glass"
of a life they assume is flawless.

You cry out— "Help, I need you,"
but the world keeps walking, oblivious,
leaving behind a voice that deserved to be heard,
a heart that only asked for "one minute more."

But here, in the rhythm of your verse,
in the aching pulse of your lines,
you are seen.
You are felt.
And your words—
they will never be left behind.

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.

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.

A tapestry of words I seek to weave,
In the echoes of each poet's breath I believe.
Each verse a spark, each line a flame,
In every soul’s poetry, a world to claim.

From inked hearts, where thoughts unfold,
I find my voice, both young and old.
In every whisper, a rhythm, a sound,
I shall write from their verses, where beauty is found.

Share your thoughts, let me hear your rhyme,
For in your words, I’ll seek my time.
Comment, and in return, I will write—
A verse from you, a reflection of light.

In the sea of voices, together we’ll float,
Each verse a ripple, each word a note.
So share your song, let our poems entwine,
For in every poet’s voice, I too shall shine.

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?

We are at a café we often visit, sitting across from each other, the same way we always do. She loves their cinnamon biscuits, the kind that crumbles at the touch but melts in your mouth with warmth. She always saves the last one for later, wrapping it in a tissue and slipping it into her bag.

Today, she does the same. But as she reaches for her bag, it tips slightly, and the biscuit drops. A tiny crack runs through it. She sighs, about to leave it, but I pick it up, carefully brushing off invisible crumbs, and hand it back.

"Still good," I say.

She looks at me, amused, and shakes her head before tucking it away again.

I don’t know why I remember that moment so much. Maybe because it was just like us—delicate but still holding together.

Months later, I’m searching for something in the backseat of my car when I find it. A tiny, forgotten bundle of tissue paper tucked between the seats. The biscuit. The one she saved that day.

She isn’t here anymore. Not in this car, not in my life. But the biscuit is. A fragile piece of something that once was.

I hold it in my palm for a moment, then unwrap it gently. It's crumbled now, beyond saving. But I don’t throw it away. Not yet. Instead, I close my fist around it, just for a second, before letting it slip between my fingers.

Some things aren’t meant to last forever. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t once whole.

Once, you bloomed with reckless grace,
soft petals blushing in love’s embrace.
The wind would sigh your fragrant name,
as morning light adorned your frame.

Held in hands that trembled sweet,
pressed to lips where longing meets.
A whispered promise, a fleeting vow,
yet time has traced you different now.

Your crimson fades, your petals fall,
but love once touched you—that is all.
For though you wilt in golden dusk,
you lived, you loved, and that’s enough.

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

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.

Your fingers begin where words are lost,
tracing slow fire along my skin,
like a whisper, like a promise,
like a prayer only my body understands.

The night hums between us, heavy, electric,
breath tangled with breath,
heat curling at the edges of restraint,
a war we no longer wish to fight.

You taste me like sin, like surrender,
lips parting against mine,
pulling me deeper into the gravity of you,
where the world ceases,
where nothing else matters.

Your hands speak in languages older than time,
lifting, pressing, claiming,
drawing sighs from the depths of me
that only you have ever known.

And then—
bodies collide, slow and aching,
hips meeting in a rhythm carved into the universe,
moans swallowed by open mouths,
by shuddering breath, by the urgency of need.

You bury yourself where I am soft,
where I am fire, where I am yours.
And I let you in, deeper, deeper,
until I no longer know where I end and you begin.

And when we fall—together, undone—
it is not an ending, but a beginning,
a creation, a devotion, a worship,
where love is made, and souls are bound.

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.

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.

"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."

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?

"Why" before "Die"
Trying to understand,
the great plan,
Ultimate quest, of
Woman, and Man.

Yet, do we ever truly know,
Or only trace what shadows show?

"One and Done"
I'm sure my little poems,
have no chance of getting
anything "Done".
In a World of "Seven"
thousand languages
I know "One".

But words, like whispers, shape the sky,
A single voice still learns to fly.

"Connection.?!"
We can only write,
what's in "our" Mind.
Yet, still take pleasure,
in what "others", Find.

And so, within each line we weave,
A stranger’s heart may still believe.

"We Knew, So Few"
Earth's history of humans,
spans ages,
Yet individually, we get,
so few pages.
In this time, so few, we
get to know.
The rest, just flakes,
in our blizzard, snow.

But every snowflake shapes the storm,
And words like these still keep us warm.

Denny, your ink flows like an old, wise river—
A current of time, of questions, of truth.
Each verse a footprint, fleeting yet firm,
In the endless dance of age and youth.

You write of past, of now, of fate,
Of fleeting moments, vast yet small—
Yet in your lines, we contemplate,
How one man’s words can touch us all.

Gratitude for the thoughts you share,
For echoes deep and questions rare.
Poetry may not fix the world,
But it lingers, a banner unfurled.

Thank you for the verses you gift,
A bridge of thought, a gentle lift.

You sculpt time with syllables bright,
turning old instants into light.

In monostich breaths, seeds are sown,
a thought takes root, a truth is known.

A poet who sees in shadowed lines,
the golden cracks where meaning shines.

Your words, like stars, in silence gleam,
pulling wisdom from the dream.

Gnōthi seautón—each phrase unfolds,
a mind that dares, a hand that holds.

Not just letters, nor rhymed disguise,
but breath that whispers, “Know, arise.”


"Step outside the fire circle,
be swallowed by the night,
step farther into the night,
be swallowed by the stars."

Not all are brave enough to wander,
to step beyond where embers flicker.
Yet you, a poet, walk in wonder,
with verses bright and steps that shimmer.

"Old instants made unforgettable"

You carve the past in fleeting light,
etching echoes on the air,
binding time in words so slight,
yet they remain, still standing there.

"The woe is not mine, I'm fine."

Not all who bleed wear open scars,
some heal through ink and quiet sighs.
A poet’s strength is held in stars,
in silent truths behind their eyes.

"Gnōthi Seautón (Γνωθι Σαυτόν)"
"Know thyself—step beyond the fire."

Knowing oneself is a river untamed,
not a mirror, but an endless sea.
You write of depth no chains have claimed,
of thought’s wild winds, of minds set free.

"Seed time harvest eat think form"

Each thought a seed, each line a field,
harvested in minds unknown.
You plant in silence, yet they yield
gardens where lost souls have grown.

"The choice decides Earth’s destiny."

Do we seek love or seek control?
Do we embrace or fight the tide?
You weave these truths through poet’s scroll,
where questions walk, where doubts confide.

"Eye now know"—or do I see?
The world rewrites itself in thee.
A bus of thought, a stop of rhyme,
Where words arrive ahead of time.

The past still echoes, whispers deep,
While future waits at corners steep.
Routes ordained, yet steps unknown,
Where choice and fate are overthrown.

You weave the we inside the me,
A poet riding mystery.
A filter, yet a lens so clear,
That bends the world, brings far to near.

Fig trees rise and vines entwine,
As history nods between your lines.
The Children of Abraham still speak,
In pauses where the quiet peaks.

O poet of the moving street,
Of chance, of time, of hands unseen.
Each stop you make, a verse remains,
A world beyond the windowpanes.

"In fog or flood, it has to look like news
and not wear down too soon."

And so, your words arrive, unshaken,
standing against time like typeface pressed into permanence.
They do not beg for attention,
yet we find ourselves held captive—
reading, rereading, lost in the weight of their silence.

"First God
Then Everest
To the ends of elation."

There is an ascent in your lines,
a climb where breath turns thin
and meaning thickens into something celestial.
You write of heights that pull and eyes that burn,
where light is both burden and gift,
and even hesitation becomes poetry.

"Maternal midnight
Metallic lakeside
Freon heart, fayence mind."

You forge night from iron,
a heart that hums in artificial cold,
a mind glazed like ceramic, fragile yet infinite.
Even your landscapes breathe—
lakes reflecting the surreal,
hills like white elephants waiting for meaning.

"Mosquitos on her mouth
Drink the blood of encryption
Change the tone of her voice."

What is hidden, you unveil.
What is encrypted, you translate into ghosts and echoes.
In your poetry, voices are rewritten,
veins are maps,
words are particles dissolving into eternity.

You, Carlo, are the architect of thresholds—
where dusk is not an ending but an exile,
where each poem is a place, a paradox, a pilgrimage.
Your lines do not just linger—
they transform.

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.