What right have poets to beseech truth from poetry’s veil?
Is it not a fragile whisper, fleeting amidst the maelstrom,
A reverie crafted from ink, meant to capture what the eye can’t hail,
Yet clutched by hands yearning for warmth, for something whole?

Why do we demand the words to unveil light in a world sewn in obsidian,
As though mere script could dispel the suffocating gloom?
Is it not the prerogative of stars or the sun's blazing minion,
To rend the dark, to chase away what makes the heart assume?

How can mere glyphs, strung in their delicate order,
Possess the power to strip away the veils of unseen night?
Do they not quiver like a cosmos at its farthest border,
Groping for lucidity, for revelation’s fleeting light?

At what fathom will we permit our hearts to sink,
Before ascending the rungs of wisdom’s sacred spire?
Is it only in grief that we pause, reflect, and think,
Or in silence’s embrace, where we confront our deepest fire?

If the question were posed—“Death or a life without Poetry?”—which would you claim?
Would you surrender to the void or wield the quill as your lance?
And if Knowledge itself stood bare, would you dare the same,
To consume its burden, though it spirals into an unknowable trance?

What is true illumination when the poet’s plight is plain,
To question as a sage, to tear the heavens open wide?
What if the universe offered its truths, but only in pain—
Would you seize them, though they lead to naught but a hollow stride?

Rivers cascade; the sun bleeds, and still we pry,
Is the answer tucked in silence, or sung in the song?
For only in questions, not feeble answers, do we untie,
The enigma of the cosmos, where we all belong

Beneath the expanse of a sky I can't measure,
I gave what was left of me, a breath, a pulse.
Your gaze, how do I explain it?
It isn't the stars; they're too obvious.
Maybe it’s like a river catching fire,
While I stand along its banks burning.

What haven’t I done for this fleeting connection?
I’ve wandered deserts of my own making,
traded the last light of my pride,
because your silence, even your silence,
weighs more than all the noise in me.

Would I walk into the dark for you?
I already have.
Would I drown for you?
Perhaps I already am,
Would I suffocate ?
That's how it feels waiting for you.
It’s not a question of survival,
it’s a question of what kind of truth
we let ourselves taste.

The word intrinsically
is tossed into conversations
like loose change in your ash tray
its weight overlooked,
its meaning lost
in the noise of hedonism.

But it is important to understand:
Unlike the word instrumental,
it carries no condition,
needs no chain to bind its worth.

Money, so often mistaken for gold,
it is only a reflection
instrumentally valuable,
its true purpose realized
only when it buys a fleeting moment.
But it is not intrinsically valuable.

Pleasure, though, stands alone,
its joy neither traded nor diminished.
The experience itself,
pure, undiluted, whole,
is enough.

Even if it leads nowhere,
even if it touches nothing else,
pleasure exists,
and that is the value.

Has anyone pondered the weight of love's flame?
Or the ache it leaves when none remain?
Both are gifts, though laced with pain,
The heart survives, though never the same.

I linger with lovers in their blissful trance,
Feel their joy in a fleeting glance,
Yet walk with the broken, their tears untold,
Mending hearts once fierce, now cold.

No bounds contain the soul's design,
It loves, it shatters, it dares to entwine.
Each touch unique, yet all the same,
The fire of passion, the quiet of shame.

And all its echoes — joy and ache,
Are pieces of beauty that love must make.

I tried to count the times I fell in love ,
But my memory failed to serve,
their meaning lost in time,
Each face, and memory were empty,
Lost in thoughts I pondered of long ago.

I reached for my quill and ink, to write forgotten lines,
To write down the echoes, jotted in tears.
Yet all my words were faint and torn,
A fabric ripped, both bright and worn.

My diary still waits, its pages empty,
The keeper of the love I wear.
But as I write, the truth unweaves
Some loves are meant to not be written

The poet grips his pen,
its weight a tether to something unseen,
something clawing inside him.
He wants to write of love,
of soft births and the tender glow of dawn.
He wants to summon angels,
their wings brushing away the silence.

But his hand silently rebels.
It moves, driven by the pull of his heart,
that traitorous vessel,
and spills ink like fallen blood
dark, thick, unrelenting.
It writes not of hope,
but of shadows that stretch and swallow, consume
of demons that smirk in the margins,
of decay creeping through unseen cracks.

And he pauses, breath tight in his chest.
Why, he wonders,
did God give us eyes for beauty,
to witness the trembling grace of a leaf,
the soft curve of a smile
yet hands that betray,
that carve darkness from the light?

Why did He split the mind and the heart,
one knowing the good,
the other bound to its darker pulse?
We want the best, the poet thinks,
yet we falter, unseen.
We preach kindness,
yet our shadows curl with unspoken cruelties.
We crave forgiveness,
but hold grudges like treasured stones.

Must the sky break open?
Must angels plummet and demons rise
before we stop?
Before we change?

Or will it take the King Himself,
stepping into the chaos,
for us to bow,
to surrender this endless war
between what we see,
what we know,
and what we do?

The poet sits,
pen still trembling.
He does not write the answer,
because he does not know it.
But his heart beats on,
and the ink continues to flow.

Lantern and Flame
From pulpits built on brittle lies,  
their words crumble like ash,  
filling the skies with emptiness.  
The sacred chains that once held the meek  
shatter beneath the roar of voices.  

A fire smolders in mortal hearts,  
its embers feeding where fear once ruled.  
No idols rise, no gods remain;  
the soul ascends,  
carving its truth from the void.  
Earth takes back its kin,  
unashamed of desire, unafraid of sin.  

A lantern sways in the darkness,  
its flame trembling,  
revealing what prophets hid.  
No pearled gates, no thrones of gold—  
only soil, fertile and raw,  
where truths root and grow.  
The descending lights from burning stars,  
cold and distant,  
Fall upon ambient shores.  
They seek no praise,  
bearing witness with silent indifference.  

They gaze upon the fallen earth with silent eyes, unshaken  
They offer no grace, no forgiveness, no judgement  
only a savage beauty,  
reflecting the shape of our hunger,  
Our deepest depth.  

The pulse of flesh,  
the spark of want,  
a hymn rising from deep within.  
Not from saints or stoics,  
but from open skies and burning hearts.  
Kindness blooms where roots entwine,  
while wrath devours deceit.  
Indulgence whispers its song;  
restraint bows its head.  
It seems every choice once condemned  
becomes a doorway through freedoms stairs,  
they walk softly, when each step offers, enlightenment, wisdom  
knowledge in its path,  
the road less taken.  

Through ancient soil,  
fires ash, our simple roots stretch deep entangled,  
entwining with the unseen.  
The winds of our time shift,  
stones turn while mountain lean toward us,  
as if drawn by a force  
older than time.  
A murmur stirs through veins of earth,  
a call rising from hills and plains.  
Desire sculpts the barren clay,  
and night lingers when summoned.  
No angel intervenes;  
only human hands  
shape the world.  

The sea without age glimmers, dark and endless,  
its waves carrying secrets.  
Leviathan stirs beneath the tides,  
its power silent,  
its wisdom primal.  
The salt burns against our tongues,  
its songs carve truth into flesh.  
The depths rise,  
freeing the soul,  
and the self emerges,  
unchained from the waves.  

A temple rises,  
built of wax and bone.  
Incense curls,  
veils unravel,  
shadows press closer.  
Each word sparks a fire;  
each chant shifts the stars.  
No guardian angel watches here;  
no light spills from heaven.  
Only mortal hands command the dark.  
Flames rise;  
the mortal speaks,  
and the heavens sigh.