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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 am still searching, lost in the silent hum,
For one who sees the world as more than just what—
Who wanders, unhurried, through the creatures' breath,
Who feels the pulse of the earth and its depth.

I seek the one who wonders at the moon’s silent gaze,
At the stars that flicker with ancient, untold ways.
A soul who listens to rivers, whose stories unfold,
In the whispers of waters, in the stories they hold.

Not just the grand, but the minute and small—
The flutter of wings, the rise and the fall.
Who sees the beauty in the dust of the earth,
And finds meaning in silence, in sorrow, in birth.

I search for the one who stands still in the crowd,
Who sees the truth in the noise, the faces unbowed.
Who feels the weight of the dark in the light,
And finds peace in the silence, in the stillness of night.

I long for a heart that knows both pain and grace,
That has touched the stars and been lost in the space.
For one who will ponder, who will never be still—
Who questions the world with a mind that can feel.

For I am not seeking a lover or friend,
But a kindred soul, whose thoughts never end.
Someone who embraces both the quiet and loud,
Who lives in the wonder, in the space between crowds.

I am still searching, with my heart in the air—
For the one who will feel, the one who will care.
The one who will wonder, who sees the divine,
In the folds of the cosmos, in the soul’s endless climb.

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.

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.

She had this habit of stealing my pens. Not in a careless way—no, she’d always take them with this playful smirk, twirling them between her fingers as if claiming them as her own.

"You have too many," she’d say, slipping one into her bag.

"And you never have one," I’d counter, watching her tuck it away like a prize.

It became our thing. Every time we met—at coffee shops, libraries, or even just in my car—she’d end up with one of my pens. And every time I pretended not to mind, but secretly, I started carrying extras. Just for her.

One evening, as she sat across from me, doodling absentmindedly on a napkin with yet another stolen pen, I asked, "Do you even use them, or do they just pile up somewhere?"

She grinned, biting her lip. "Maybe I just like taking something of yours with me."

I didn’t respond, just watched her trace circles on the napkin, my stolen pen spinning between her fingers.

Months later, we drift apart. Not suddenly—just a slow, quiet unraveling. The messages become shorter, the calls less frequent. And then, one day, there’s only silence.

One afternoon, I’m looking for something in my desk drawer when I see it—a pen. Not mine. Hers. The only one she ever left behind.

I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers the way she used to. I don’t even try to use it. I just hold it there, wondering if, somewhere in her bag, my pens still exist. If, in some quiet moment, she finds one and remembers me too.

Some people don’t take things to keep them. They take them to hold onto a feeling.

And maybe, just maybe, she held onto me too.

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.

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.

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?

"With the utmost compassion, the dark one reaps in waves..."
Yet she stands unshaken, a poet of storms,
weaving change into the wind,
etching echoes into time.
Through turbulent vessels of pride, she carves mirrors,
reflecting truths we dare not name.

"Please don’t arouse my anger..."
For love, she would move mountains,
for her children, she would break the sky.
Soft as a whisper, fierce as fire,
a mother’s wrath, untempered steel.
She writes in pulse and prophecy,
a warrior who shelters, a poet who shields.

"Grandma sold mother..."
Some legacies are bound in chains,
some are broken, thread by thread,
and from their ruins, she builds anew—
not with shame, not with sorrow,
but with shards made beautiful.
The weight of the past does not define her,
it is the stone she stands upon.

"I'm watching from the moon..."
She sees beyond the finite, beyond the stars,
whispering love across the silence.
Aneesah Lionheart, voice of time,
your words do not fade—they crystallize,
shining, burning, living on.

And if poetry is power,
then yours is an unshaken kingdom.

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.

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

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

When the sorrow you kept inside starts to burn in a cigarette,
When a genius of science starts writing poems,
And when someone who never listens to anyone starts listening to poems,

With a laptop bag on my shoulder,
Far from home, in a strange city, at a station,
When I see a child crying in his mother’s lap,
I smile and remember my own home,
That’s when life makes sense.

When sleep gets lost in the dark pits under your eyes,
That’s when life makes sense.
When you face words like rent, ration, electricity, and water,
When a fearless heart begins to feel a little scared,
When the burden of home responsibilities starts weighing on your shoulders,
That’s when life makes sense.

When the one who once cried to get a toy,
Now smiles but takes the wounds,
When someone with a heart of stone is broken like a flower,
When someone more precious than life leaves you alone on the road,
That’s when life makes sense.

When making friends seems more difficult than staying alone,
When a dried rose kept in a diary feels more important,
When someone you see in the mirror feels like a stranger,
That’s when life makes sense.

When you want to cry but can’t,
When you grow so big that in the middle of family fights,
You stand firm and when someone asks, “Is everything okay?”
And you say, “Everything’s fine,”
That’s when life makes sense.

When the lie spoken by your lips
Is revealed as truth by someone’s eyes,
When the dreams of someone get devoured by the crowd around them,
When the silence in the room shouts loudly in your ears,
That’s when life makes sense.

When you realize that nothing is like the destination,
When you understand that there’s no destination like the one imagined,
There’s only the road, far and wide,
When the day doesn’t begin even after the sun rises,
When nothing works the way you want it to,
When a grand house has no one to call home,
That’s when life makes sense.

When the moon doesn't show the marks of aging,
When the moon doesn’t show the imperfections and stains,
When the tunes of songs fade into the words of the songs,
When the tears saved all day fall onto the pillow,
That’s when life makes sense.

When coming home on time in the evening seems right,
When the sorrow you kept inside starts to burn in a cigarette,
When a genius of science starts writing poems,
And when someone who never listens to anyone starts listening to poems,

That’s when life makes sense.
That’s when life makes sense.
Love, **** it, still doesn’t make sense.

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.

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

"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.

"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.

@Jess,
"The greatest one I bear now,
making me die a little each day,
is that I let you go, not knowing,
leaving was a decision you'd regret."
You, with your raw, poignant words,
captured the agony of unspoken goodbyes,
painting the ache of regret like a timeless portrait.
In your verse, I hear the soul's deepest cry,
yet in your strength, there’s also light.

@Anais Vionet,
"I am the wind, the desert breeze,
the ocean spray and rustling leaves."
You, like the wind, slip through every thought,
a breath of freedom captured in verse,
unstoppable, untamed. Your lines dance
like whispers of the sea,
speaking of transformation, beauty, and loss.

@Shane Michael Stoops,
"46 years,
What do you get,
Your way past old,
Your pants don’t seem to fit"
You embrace the passage of time,
showing us the strength in weariness,
the humor in change. Your words,
like a hearty laugh, echo through life's stages,
reminding us that every line of life is worth reading.

@CJ Sutherland,
"eye now know
the how, when, where and the-why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
memories of past and present... blending into memories of future happenstance."
Your poetry is a mosaic of time,
where past, present, and future coexist,
and each word is a step toward discovery.
Your mind is both a mirror and a window,
reflecting and shaping the world.

@Shane Michael Stoops (again),
"We danced in the rain,
Laughing away so much pain."
Your words hold an unspoken promise,
the joy of dancing in the face of sorrow.
In your poems, there is an invitation to release,
to shed our fears and allow laughter to heal.
You teach us that pain and joy can coexist.

@Jess (again),
"I hardly understand the ticking of the clock,
trying hard to go through each day."
The ticking of your verse carries the weight
of endless hours and endless thoughts.
In your words, I hear the struggle of time
and the ache of waiting for solace.
But there's grace in your journey—
and your courage leaves a lasting mark.

@Anais Vionet (again),
"What is chosen is believed,
though the choices are presented—
I choose among the sacrificial burnt offerings."
You have a way of breaking down complexity
with a single line, weaving the eternal truth
into a delicate, yet unapologetically bold choice.
Your words cut to the heart,
unraveling mysteries with elegance and resolve.