Not all who write are marching still,
but some are hauled across the land
no summons, no divine decree,
just gravel clinging to the hand.

Some set off clear-eyed, blades aligned,
intent to split the sky with word.
They chased a theme, a structured cause,
and bent the world to what they heard.

But most are dragged by unseen weight,
by murmurs flint can’t spark their fate.
They stumble first, then walk, then chart
a route with no defining art .

The older ones wore armor loud
Dante with a scaffolded wrath,
Milton with iron in his verse,
their goals fused tight with time and path.

But others roam in different light,
no city burning in their view
they listen where no banner flies,
and mark what rain and tension do.

The lyric kind is ruled by turns,
they track a pulse beneath the field.
They do not ride on calls to arms,
but dig to where the wire yields.

No thesis waits behind their pace,
no endpoint drawn with steady ink.
They only name the thing they've seen
once forced to stop and forced to think.

Obsession isn't optional
it coils inside the second line.
It shapes the work before it speaks,
a motive masked in clear design.

And yet, some merge the lyric drift
with something deeper, thread by thread
the search for God within the grind,
a question aimed but never said.

He asked: If not to near the truth,
then why begin the path at all?
A voice that wasn't meant to soothe,
but punch the breath out, make you stall.

And those who track his marks in stone
will never find the full design
just flares of thought, like coal once lit,
still giving heat beyond their time.

Each work a module, self-contained,
yet tuned to one persistent chord
not in the scope of epic song,
but in the weight the line endured.

This too becomes a kind of march
not in formation, but in fire.
A poem is forged, not built or sung.
The trail is cut, then climbs higher.

The critic trails with steel in hand,
to measure what was done or meant
but finds the arc was shaped by need,
and not by rule or argument.

So let them come, the ones obsessed
who live within the phrase they frame.
Their pilgrim path is made of heat,
of pressure, scope, and unnamed aim.

A Night Beneath Your Hair
In a vision,
the velvet sky unfolds,
and stars gather in your eyes
their glow softens,
melting into strands of moonlight
woven through your hair.

A low wind hums in the trees,
and the sound carries you
your scent, your shape,
your breath on the rim of the world.
The chill brushes past,
but you
you touch me
like fire through silk.

Tiny sparks trail down my skin,
shivering like rain across stone
my chest, bare,
partially covered in a flannel throw.

My hand finds your shoulder,
tracing the curve
where warmth lives.
You lean in,
your hands resting
at the small of my back.

I sink
into you.
Into the quiet gravity
of your closeness.

And finally
my lungs open,
my ribs widen,
and I breathe
not just air,
but something fuller,
richer,
that only exists
with you.

Love is
Falling hard for someone you just met,
because mystery wears a charming face,
and silence speaks in borrowed grace.
You don’t know their story,
but your heartbeat writes it anyway.

Love is
Thinking about them constantly,
haunted by a smile,
obsessed with a voice
that never said much,
but said enough to loop in your mind
like a song you can’t stop humming.

Love is
That feeling of “this is it,”
when you barely know their middle name,
but your soul swears it remembers them
from some dream you never had.

But truthful love
is infatuation in disguise:
an intense blaze
burning bright and blind,
irrational,
overwhelming
a rush, not a root.

It isn’t deep,
it doesn’t anchor,
it dances on the surface of fantasy.

For love that lasts
takes more than magic and moments
it takes values:
patience,
respect,
resilience,
a shared will to grow
when the thrill fades,
when the real begins.

Love is
not just a spark,
but the quiet tending of a fire
when no one is watching.

But if you want forever it's more than just loves infatuation.

look closer than just a door.
Take the time to see what’s in
for the heart could be full of sin.
The one who swept you to the floor
you might wake up and see no more.
When the clouds have left the day,
love is lost, and all turns gray.

It takes more than just a thought of work to make it last
knowing the future means accepting each other's the past.
Honesty, respect, and something more
that’s what makes true love endure.

I go where maps dissolve
where thought forgets,
and silence flowers.
Time unrobes,
faiths fold inward.
Stars blink, then vanish.
The soul (if soul)
sleeps deeper than dream
a whisper in the wound.
Truth hums beneath the skin:
a kiss, a cry,
a flame unnamed.
Don’t chase the answer.
Be the breath
between the question.

Shall I rise with the sun
if I have not met you in the hush between stars?

The night opens like a velvet vow,
and in its cradle, your presence lingers
not flesh, not form,
but fragrance and fire,
a name I’ve never spoken
yet know by heart.

Your touch is the ghost of warmth on my shoulder,
a breath-shaped echo
that turns silence into music.

Willows trees gently lean as though in prayer,
and the air—sweet with unseen jasmine
carries your myth
from a place no map can hold.

I walk each night where dream and stardust fold
a golden bridge not made, but remembered.
Each step I take becomes a question,
each shadow, a verse of your arrival.

Petals fall in my sleep like oracles
blossoms louder than thunder,
soft as a soul unbreaking.

Outside, the world claws at the glass,
its engines loud with dust and desire.
But here
within this ink-lit hush,
my heart remains still,
alive only in the firelight of your approach.

Now I know this body is a vessel of mist,
a brief echo of something truer.
And so I dream not to escape,
but to arrive
at you,
who waits beyond the veil
like dawn behind the last forgetting.

Let the world clamor.
I will not answer.
I have a star to follow.
And your name burns brighter
with every step deeper into the dream.

How shall I face the silver sky
if I do not write of love tonight?
The sacred moon,
half in these mighty clouds soft longing veil,
It waits in the sky like a faithful soul still, undiminished.

She lingers a moment, aloof yet watching all below closely,
Unheard songs never touching the world she adores.
Every tree reaches in admiration,
even the cassia bows beneath her majesty's gaze,
its silver-like shadow sinking into every moment of longing.

Love is similar, it too glows brightest from afar
Yet close enough to ache while too vast to fully hold.
Mist clings to the moor, every petals with unshed tears, this twilight fog
as silence becomes the shape of our love.

The silent keeper of the new realm waits,
refusing to unbar the golden bridge,
arching between our presence and coming farewell a celestial bridge lit only for those who dare to journey.

I uncorked your scent with trembling hands, rose and rust - petals blood steep in sandalwood oil and with this I follow to the reaching unknown.

The perfume of every fallen blossom lingers in the stolen air owned by the night, more alive in this moment than the bloom ever was.

The wind that moves every landscape carries a lullaby gently forward, it speaks softly as the travelers follow it's lit path,
it moves through trembling trees, over hill tops
its hush present and more honest than any vow.

So I write here beside the northern pane,
my ink steeped in the quiet of stars,
for even heaven, dressed in snow and silver,
cannot outshine the yearning of one heart.

The soul is not made of fire.
It is vapor
a question left in the mouth of the wind,
never answered, only carried
from one silent sky to another.

I have walked the lip of the world
where cloudlight stumbles over its own shadow,
and the ocean forgets its own hunger
just to listen.

In that place,
I called out to the soul,
not like a prayer,
but like a wave speaking back to the moon
without hope,
only pattern.

It did not answer.
It never does.
But something changed in the listening.

We are not shaped by what moves us,
but by what leaves us still.
Not by thunder,
but by the long ache after it.

The soul isn’t a star
waiting to be named.
It is the silence
between two tides
where light forgets itself
and becomes meaning.

I have drowned
in skies with no ceiling,
in winds that peeled language from my spine.
Still, I floated
not upward,
but inward.

There is no ascent.
Only deepening.
Only the sky folding in
like an old map soaked in salt.

And perhaps
we were never meant to find the soul,
only to feel the weight
of not finding it
the hush that remains
when the wave
refuses to crash.