Before first light,
I slip away from the crowded square
and climb the worn steps of forgotten heights.
But the season’s breath is spent,
and I long for shelter again.

The fruitless limbs stand bare,
their burden shed,
and silent weavers of days grow slow beneath fading skies.
These Buds have hardened to shells,
yet delicate wings of night birds still flutter by.

The softened rain halts,
then returns in sudden pulsing waves;
a narrow stream runs straight,
then winds blow all beyond sight.
The winding trail stretches endless but so does the narrow,
and wild blooms of season fill the shallowed grove.

Two birds’ mirrored shapes break the still water;
fresh shoots press upward through softened earth.
The land swells and dips like a restless sigh;
scattered dwellings mark the scattered lives.

From ages past until now,
our paths echo the same quiet truths.
My life is full,
my nights quiet undisturbed
what more could I or my soul seek?

My work is humble,
a small flame flickering,
and yet I fret for the emptiness beneath the surface.
In these distant valleys,
the heavy air weighs on me;
I lie spent, too weary to lift my gaze.

Sickness and want crowd all sides;
These fragile lives drift like the fog at morning
These clouds gather dense and dark;
rolls of thunder shake the distant hills waiting to be struck by lightning.

Water spills in sudden torrents from broken eaves;
crickets and night singers weave their ceaseless duet.
The fiery reign of high summer is driven back
by relentless storms from heavy skies.

The fresh, cool breath of rain revives my spirit,
and I wade through shallows to reach ancient stone walls.
I beckon the wind’s gentle spirit to dance
to swirl her robes in step with forgotten songs.

Raindrops swell my cup,
and countless sips cleanse the weight of sorrow.

Yet still I know this cannot last,
for my hollow home chills like the fading year.
Thoughts rise fierce and sharp within my mind,
and restless feelings thread through worn pages.

The ink runs thin across the aching lines,
while dusk-tide silence folds the room in hush.
What tether holds me in this quiet drift
this half-life written in unfinished breath?

A distant voice stirs beneath the static hush,
haunted by the shape of fading hills.
You sent the first note, fragile and true
together,
we raise our voices in a fading hymn.

Golden roads
call brave
      from the stillness,
      where no map shows the way
      I felt the breath of something ancient
      stir the morning’s gray.

Mountains blinked
with clouds
      and silence said aloud,
      “This doubt you feel is the gate,
      where all the great must bow.”

Every storm
tastes bitter,
       but only on the tongue;
       for those who keep on walking,
       find their spirit sung.

Watch shadows
become guides,
      when fear begins to preach.
      Let it speak, but don’t obey
      your dreams lie just out of reach.

Burn bridges
behind doubt,
      if it means you’ll finally climb
      to where the world opens wide
      and truth keeps perfect time.

No falsehood
Life holds stars,
      they shine for the brave and bold;
      and all who dare to walk fates path              
      they will feel their purpose unfold.

So leap.
Jump breath held
      Trust falling,
      into the firelight unseen.
      For doubt is but the dragon’s trick
      your path was always keen.

Don’t be sorry — that’s just noise people make when they want to look decent without changing a thing.

Don’t explain — that’s just smoke people blow when they’re hoping you’ll forget they lit the match.

Don't be sorry be careful.

When the Moon Refused the Sea
I found the night beneath my nails,
black with the silence of undone prayers.
The stars were dull coins in a wishing jar
that no god ever shook.

I planted laughter in the soil
but nothing bloomed
except a vine of sighs
and the soft decay of maybe.

The wind spoke in riddles I once knew,
before language bled from my mouth
like wine from a cracked chalice.
Now even my dreams stutter
in dialects of ash.

A mirror broke inside me
the day the moon refused the sea
left the tide to curl like smoke
and the shore to whisper, “wait.”

Where are the ones who used to sing
with oil lamps lit in their ribs?
Where are the dancers
who knew how to bleed into rhythm
and still rise?

Tonight, I carry a lantern of salt.
It burns only for those
who have loved something
that could not love them back.

And still
I walk toward morning.
Barefoot.
Unbelieving.
But burning all the same.

they don’t sleep.
they submit.
bodies boxed in concrete coffins,
ten floors high, a hundred deep
paper-thin walls where arguments
bleed through like veins under skin.

fluorescent guilt buzzes louder than breath.
no dreams.
just the dull hum of lightbulbs choking
on what they used to mean.

sky?
that’s just bruise-stained ceiling.
nobody looks up.
we already know
what’s not there.

children speak silence fluently
tongues trained in broken things.
they read eviction notices
before bedtime stories.

mothers rock infants in overdraft arms,
crooning hymns of unpaid light.
fathers vanish
not with thunder, but with rust,
names ash on window corners,
like they never learned how to stay.

the street don’t whisper,
it grinds.
the sidewalk sings in fractured teeth.
there’s gospel in the gutter,
but it’s all static,
all rust and cigarette ends.

you want salvation?
ask the liquor store.
they sell God in plastic bottles
and false hope,
2-for-1.

aisles stacked with plastic joy,
bright things for broken hands.
price tags read like ransom notes—
freedom leased in thirty months.
a sale on silence.
a discount on despair.

the rain comes through the roof again.
they call it rhythm.
we call it giving up slowly.

still, we pray.
to blue screens,
to blinking routers,
to gods that filed for bankruptcy
in '08.

and me?
I came with paper.
with policy.
with polished shoes and smiling ink.
a badge that said “Hope Officer”
but meant
“We’ll study your suffering later.”

they said uplift.
I gave speeches that tasted like chalk.
they said restore faith.
I handed them mirrors.
they shattered.

I tried.
I swear I ******* tried.
but the ceiling kept lowering
and the floor
kept giving out.

now I walk
coat tight,
head down,
the city murmuring suicide
in lightposts and passing trains.

every window a wound.
every bus stop a confessional booth.
every breath
another god that didn’t answer.

this place is a psalm of what’s left
after justice forgets your name.
after the future skips your bloodline.
after the hymns
turn hollow.

I mourned with many,
but alone
I bore the weight no tears had shown.
For they were gone
their spark, their flame,
The one who taught my soul its name.

They came when youth was raw and blind,
And etched their songs into my mind.

And now they’re gone,
but I remain
A voice shaped softly by their flame.

I struck my skin upon the barren thorn,
And life-red rose to surface, warm.
I stared into it—bubble-deep,
As from the wound, my skin did weep.

It traced a path slow to the floor,
Reminding me of days before,
And all the roads I dared to tread
Each drop, a whisper of paths I've fled.

It showed the way I made it down,
From mountain smile to valley frown.
Each fall returned me to my start,
A bleeding map of shattered heart.

The droplets fell with quiet grace,
Coating grey cement’s cold face.
At first, it seemed a wasteful spill,
Like years I'd lost against my will.

But then, with every crimson line,
I saw the tears I’d left behind
Each drop a ghost, a dried-up cry,
That never found the ground to dry.