The sun stood still,
and Earth began to move
not in sky,
but in mind.

A lens,
tilted toward the heavens,
revealed that silence
was not stillness.

A knife cut through belief
not to wound,
but to ask,
again and again.

An apple fell,
and with it,
the veil between the stars
and the street.

I wandered through the vaults of thought and flame,
Where peristyles in basalt bore no name,
And columns stretched like hymns across the seas,
Painted in twilight’s thousand reverent degrees.
The sky, it kissed the ocean’s mirrored gaze
A temple drowned in ever-shifting haze.
And there I lived in lush, immortal ease,
Where fans of palm blew slow, obedient breeze.

Their silence served to cool my burning brow,
As naked slaves moved time without a vow.
Yet in that land of dream and dusky gold,
A deeper, stranger symmetry took hold:

Why is it all I see returns in three
Like some divine and ancient guarantee?

The Father, Son, and Spirit veil the soul,
The Id, the Ego, Superego’s role.
The Brahma, Shiva, Vishnu guard the gate,
While Maiden, Mother, Crone unravel fate.
Three Fates who spin, three Graces clothed in charm,
Three curses, three desires, threefold harm.

The world itself obeys a triple voice:
Solid, Liquid, Gas in fluid choice.
Evaporation, Condensation’s dance,
And Precipitation’s downward trance.
The atom sings in Proton, Neutron, Charge,
Its silence split across a spectrum large.
Red, Green, and Blue compose the prism’s song,
Three notes of light that carry life along.

The Past, the Present, Future never sleep
They guard the hours we borrow but can't keep.
Producer, Consumer, Decomposer rise,
And write the food chain’s truth beneath the skies.

Our minds are threes: Conscious where we tread,
Subconscious murmurs, Unconscious sleeps like dead.
A triune brain of Reptile, Feeling, Mind,
A holy tangle evolution twined.
Our needs arise as Survive, Belong, Transcend,
The Maslow path we chase until the end.
And still we speak with Logic, Heart, and Trust
Logos, Pathos, Ethos born from dust.

A First name, Middle, Last we often bear,
To walk our Youth, Adult, and Elder stare.
Mind, Body, Spirit are the roles we keep,
We Work, we Play, and then we fall to Sleep.
The Hero, Guide, Antagonist all meet,
On stages where three Acts make life complete.
The Setup, Clash, Resolve in story’s shell,
A dance of Thesis, Anti, Synthesis fell.

The Trident stands with Power, Balance, Will,
And fairy tales grant Wishes by the thrill
Of threes: three trials, three locks, three golden keys
Three riddles echoing in whispered trees.

Why so much threeness clings to every breath?
Why three to shape a life, a fate, a death?
What secret lies in this repeated spell
This triad truth the world has learned so well?

I lay beneath those caverns carved in lore,
Drunk on the wine of metaphors and more.
Is this the code, the song, the god’s decree?
The structure of the soul? The cosmic plea?

Or is the third not curse, nor gift, but test
The balance point between the east and west?
Where chaos meets control in perfect bind,
The echo of a Universal Mind?

Three stars above me blinked in calm delight.
Three steps I took into the endless night.
Three questions burned like brands inside of me:

"What are you? Where from? What will you be?"

They say a painting hangs in silence,
but listen closer.
There’s breath in the pigment,
ache in the line.
Each stroke: a fingertip pressed to time
a plea,
a promise,
a person,
or a price.

Da Vinci’s Mona wasn’t for you.
Klimt’s lovers weren’t thinking of your ache.
Picasso broke forms, not hearts,
and yet we all see ourselves in his fractures.
Van Gogh painted stars
not to claim the sky,
but to survive it.

Caravaggio lit his sinners with holy fire,
while Vermeer captured silence
as if it were a form of prayer.
Frida poured pain like molasses onto linen.
Turner wept storms into colour.
O'Keeffe painted the body
without apology.
Chagall made lovers float
because gravity was too dull for love.

What madness, then,
to say a moment
is yours
because the pose feels familiar?
Because you too saw two figures beneath a tree?
As if love and death
are trademarks,
as if a cherub in the clouds
belongs to one man’s hand.

No two said, “you stole my sun,”
though they all painted it.
No master shouted theft
when another touched sorrow
with the same red.

The artist owns not the subject,
but the sweat.
The trembling hand.
The night stared down with doubt.
The day it was finally finished.
And more sacred still
every moment
they toiled,
half-blind with longing,
to make something
that might be
beautiful.

And here’s the irony:
today’s loudest mouths
the self-appointed guards of “originality”
pen their spare lines with surgical caution,
write in whispers
to avoid the radar of truth.
Minimal not by craft,
but by fear
fear of artificial detection,
the same that bleeds through
minimal lines.

Yet the quiet hypocrisy shows
in the empty space between their words,
the absence of soul where colour should be.
For the difference is this:

One form dares the test.
The other
hides from it,
until they meet.

Stone columns stretch,
sun melts into sea.
Sky leans low,
its breath a plea.
Brushed in fading flame,

Orange bleeds
across sky blue
a canvas rare,
a moment true.

I lived there once:
cool air, slow hands,
the hush of palm leaves
and quiet pain.

Beneath the beauty,
what could not be said
remained.

Often I stand on life’s sidelines,
thinking – real calm, real clear:
I couldn’t give two *****,
’cause without a doubt,
you’d just want more…
and I ain’t about to give three or four.