I stood again where my breath vanished
on the edge of speaking
the air too still to carry even grief.
Around me, the world held its posture,
like it too awaited a reply
that would not come.

No flame descended, no tremor rose,
only the pressure of unbroken silence
folding itself around the questions
I hadn’t yet learned to stop asking.

Somewhere above, thought gathered
in a form I dared not name.
Not presence. Not absence.
But something in between,
watching itself through me.

I opened my mouth,
but what escaped me was not prayer, nor song
only the echo of unspent meaning,
a voice shaped more by question
than knowledge.

There are rooms in the soul
where even memory is forbidden.
In those, I build altars of fallen breath,
stacking each exhale like stone
to bear the weight of waiting.

If this is faith,
it does not comfort.
It requires no belief.
Only that I return each day
and listen for what I know isn't there.

Still, I do.
Not because I expect the silence to break,
but because I am part of its shape now
a line in its unwritten sentence,
the soft space between words
curled at the edge of speech.

If this life is an Unlit altar
I press my voice into the windless dark,
as if breath alone could shape an answer.
Knees sunk deep in brittle earth,
I offer silence where hymns once rose.

No fire falls. No veil stirs above me.
Only the hush of those illuminated stars
burning through questions
older than any creed.

Once this world felt held
a warm, unseen hand of meaning.
Now this endless sky stares back
these great eyes looking down: vast, flawless, and mute.

I build no temples, only marks in sand,
each one unseen before it's known.
A ritual of reaching
toward something that may never reach back.

Is this devotion or defiance
to keep shaping the shape of longing
when no hand returns the touch?

Still I rise,
not redeemed, not refused,
but marked by the gesture
of asking.

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.

What if birth is not a beginning
but a riddle wrapped in skin,
a folded geometry of soul
left to unfold
one breath at a time?

What if we are not meant to bloom,
but to fracture slowly
to wrestle with hunger
until it teaches us
the shape of longing,
until the horizon
no longer outruns our hearts?

We do not begin with wisdom.
We begin as ache
pure, primal ache
an unfinished sentence
spoken in the dialect of our need.

The world does not explain.
It vibrates.
It taps at the shell
of our unknowing
until stillness becomes a language
and silence becomes a guide.

Somewhere between
the third fall of pride
and the first burial of wonder,
we feel the scaffolding stir
not outside us,
but within.
Not to lift us,
but to remind us:
we were always meant
to carry sky
in the depth of our being.

Transformation is not ascension.
It is demolition.
It is the collapse
of the old temple
we mistook for self.

Becoming light
is not weightless.
It is surrender
to the burden of awareness,
to the salt of silence,
to the dissolving of every name
you gave yourself to survive.

The cocoon is not sleep.
It is judgment.
Each cell recalls the lie
that shaped it.
Each limb whispers,
“I was never whole there.”

Metamorphosis is not polite.
It breaks locks
you didn't know were doors.

And flight?
Flight is not motion.
It is the cessation of resistance.
It is the unlearning
of destination.
It is the tasting of sky
with a mouth
no longer asking for proof.

I do not seek meaning.
I live alongside it
as shadow,
as rhythm,
as breath turned inward.
I wear my past
as softened armor.
I bow to the wind
not for freedom,
but for its honesty
it names nothing,
yet moves all.

And perhaps,
this is the truth we miss:
we were never meant
to become.
We were always
meant to remember
what we already are.

What if the question
is older than the answer?
What if time forgets
why it moves,
and the stars
no longer know their names?
What if we speak,
but it is the silence between words
that holds the weight.
The road bends
not to mislead,
but to remind us:
truth is never linear.
A seed does not know
it is a tree.
The stone does not dream
of flight
yet both contain the sky.
I do not search
for meaning,
only the place
where meaning once slept.

I have lost my name many times
in the wind of unknowing.
I walked through the orchard of hours,
but the sweet, fallen fruit whispered lies,
and the trees turned their faces
from the hot Summer sun.

Nothing is straight in this world
not the road we take,
not the reason,
not the prayer softly spoken at dawn
with a cracked voice.
The truth, it seems,
is always playing hard to get.

I have lifted many stones
with trembling hands
stones heavy with silence,
heavy with secrets,
with the weeping of soldier ants,
with the old breath of forgotten earth.
And I have asked them:
Where is the truth I seek?
Where are the answers to the great unknown?
They do not answer me
but the dust beneath them sings
like the gods of old,
trying to let the cat out of the bag
in a language no longer spoken.

I am becoming
an old map with no legend,
a cathedral with broken bells
and shattered glass of color,
a man whose mind has frayed with time
from too many full moons
and too little meaning,
burning the candle at both ends
just to light a way that won’t stay lit.

Love arrives
as a feather,
and leaves as a flame.
Hope kneels,
then rises again
wearing the mask of hunger.
Even the stars
change their language each night.
The constellations lie
like old lovers,
talking out of both sides of their mouths,
promising never to fade.

The world is full of hands
reaching for answers
in waters that do not speak.
We walk on broken splitners of questions,
kiss mouths
that know only forgetting.
We carry the scent
of yesterday’s confessions
on the hems of our thoughts
ghosts we keep sweeping under the rug.

Memory is not a drawer
it is a sky,
a sky that swallows its own birds.
We remember
with the pulse,
with the scar,
with the wineglass
we keep filling
just to feel the weight
of something red
trying to drown our sorrows,
though they’ve long since learned to swim.

And still, I search
with feet torn from too much wandering,
with eyes drunk on paradox,
with a soul that rises each morning
to peel the sun
from behind the curtains
of confusion.
I’ve gone down too many rabbit holes
to trust the surface anymore.

I do not want perfect answers.
Give me the truth
hidden like a seed
inside the bitter olive.
Let me find it
in the sweat of the laborer,
in the laugh of a woman
who remembers sorrow
but still sings
wearing her heart on her sleeve,
but never missing a beat.

I will go on
lifting the stones,
knocking on the walls of the unseen,
breathing poems
into the mouths of ghosts.

Because even if this life is known,
it is a riddle carved into mist
a puzzle with missing pieces
hidden in plain sight.
I will walk this path slow
barefoot and burning, thought-drawn
until the truth finds me,
or I find it,
and it cracks open
like a pomegranate in the sun
the heart of the matter
finally laid bare.

I did not know it then
how much of my life I spent
in pursuit of people
who stood behind curtains,
who spoke in half-gestures,
who never saw me at all.
And I
I mistook their silence for grace,
their distance for depth,
wasted hours praising shadows,
thinking they were saints.

Age crept in like a quiet thief
while I argued with the wind,
burning every bridge behind me
not for revenge,
but for honesty
because I couldn’t keep pretending
the path was paved with purpose
when all I saw were stones
and no clear road ahead.

I wandered through philosophies
like a drunk through alleys,
looking for the one window
still lit at 3 a.m.
some voice to say:
you were right to doubt,
you were right to bleed.
But every answer I found
sounded too rehearsed,
too clean,
like the kind of lie
taught in churches and schools
by those who never questioned
the god they worshipped.

I used to think there was something
waiting on the other side of pain
a reward, a reckoning,
a soft hand or a white gate
but the more I lived,
the more I saw how many men
broke themselves
waiting for something
that never came.

What if this is it?
What if all we ever had
was the breath between two silences,
the taste of wine on a Sunday night,
the brief flicker of touch
before sleep swallows us whole?

The world has always belonged
to those who claimed certainty.
They built empires on our questions,
wrote sacred texts from our fear,
used our doubt
as currency
to buy power,
to sell guilt.

And we—we folded our hands,
pretended to be holy,
afraid to ask:
what if no one is watching?
what if no one ever was?

Still, I don't mind now.
Whether the end is fire,
or dust,
or just a deep forgetting,
I find peace in knowing
that my suffering
was not for applause,
that no angel tallied my failures,
no devil stoked the furnace
for my crimes.

I live now
not because I believe,
but because I breathe.
I wake not with purpose,
but with hunger
to feel, to see, to ruin, to rise.

Let the priests whisper,
let the mystics dream.
I will walk this road barefoot,
****** if I must,
toward the same silence
that swallows kings and beggars alike.

Because in the end,
there is only one truth worth knowing
that none of us knows
and that this
is the only freedom
we were ever given.

Oh, how I did not see
the errors of my ways
how I spent time and favor
on shadows standing far behind,
silent figures in my past.

I aged faster
than I learned the lessons
life was whispering into my bones.
Each bridge I burned
out of need,
out of truth,
out of something raw or real.

I’ve sat
outside of thought,
inside doubt,
on top of dreams,
beneath the weight of wondering:
why?
where?
and to what end?

Floods of questions
drown the noise inside me
as I try to make peace
with all I’ve endured,
and yet
still feel broken
by this strange, winding road
that, in the end,
I believe,
leads to nothing.

But maybe
in the nothing,
there is peace.

I wonder
how many fools will gather
at the final hour,
those who lived restrained,
humble, waiting
for the next
the next life,
the next world,
the next promise
a promise
that never existed
outside the cradle of hope
we stitched into our minds.

They knew.
They knew
we did not know
and they took this ignorance
like a gift to be stolen,
turned it into gain—
into wealth,
into leashes for the mind,
chains for the soul.

But if we knew,
if we truly knew
there was nothing after death—
no heaven,
no judgment,
no eternal eye
what then?
Would we still walk straight
and slow
and silent?
Would we still call sin
a burden?

Or would we grab each day
like fire in our hands,
burning time with purpose,
making meaning
of this one life
instead of sacrificing it
to a dream
that might be
only silence?

I do not care anymore
what’s right or wrong.
Whether something waits
or nothing looms
both are only echoes
of thought,
shaped by fear
and passed down
like lullabies
to scared children
grown old.

No one has gone
to that Netherworld
and returned
with more than riddles.

Visions, yes
but dreams are part
of the nothing, too.
Just soft stories
spun from the dark.
Dreaming
our way
into the void.

Oh, what we might have done
if we’d known the truth.
All the chances lost,
all the years stolen
by belief
by upbringing
built on fantasy,
stitched together by trembling minds
too afraid to live
today.

Afraid of the watcher.
Afraid of the sky.

But I find comfort
in this final whisper:
One day,
I will dissolve
into the nothing.
And when that happens,
the weight I carry,
these wounds,
this sorrow
will no longer
be mine to bear.

In the nothing,
I will find
my peace.
And so,
I live now
fully,
madly,
brightly
because no one,
not one soul,
knows what comes next.

And belief…
is just
another name
for the unknown.

Tears don’t always fall.
They drift in the mind
like satellites
loosed from orbit,
slow-motion signals
across the blackroom of time.
Not grief,
but gravity remembering.

Love isn’t a moment
it’s a constellation
burned into the hands of an oaken clock and every breath,
a frequency that keeps pulsing
long after touch has stilled.

You never forget the day they vanished, the shape they left behind
an imprint in the air and universe
like heat after lightning,
like a silhouette scorched
into the filmstrip of your soul.

Some things pass in a second
But memory?
Memory is spacetime’s rebel.
It lingers longer than a moment itself
It's a glitch in the hourglass,
a clock that refuses
to stop ticking
even when the hands are gone
it still chimes.

They may have drifted
maybe forgotten from time to time ,
maybe just changed shapes
but when you reach inside
you still see their face
in reflections,
hear their voice
in the background static
of late-night silence.

We carry them:
in bloodline-chords,
in laughlines carved from shared jokes,
in arguments we still finish
alone.

Moments become galaxies
in the afterglow
brightbursts we revisit in an instance
when everything else fades.
Time dissolves,
but memory is ours to keep
memory is a stardust archivist.
It is our catalog of love lost and found
in the particles
we breathe without knowing.

And so we orbit one another forever
even when apart,
family and loved ones remain
a constellation-map
etched in soul-skin.

The world moves forward,
but the hands of time on some clocks refuse to reset.
Because we were built to feel
to remember,
to carry love
beyond the math of minutes and moments.

And when the universe forgets
we don’t because love lives in our hearts forever

We gather the remnants,
build temples from echoes,
and stand together
in the gravity
of what once was,
holding it all until the day memory fold us together
again

The old tree speaks
As sickle-saps drip slowly down
the cracked crevice of old bronze-barked bark,
filling age-ridden grooves with sap-time whispers
rings like time-coils and bark-riddles
guide each sliver of golden hymn,
sung from the wooden heart
of the ancient tree
that sits in solitary patience
within the fertile cradle of the earth.

Its roots run deep
ink-veins beneath the soil
buried truths in loam-lined silence,
a story only time remembers.
Golden, olive, copper, and ember-burnished leaves
adorn outstretched branch-arms,
grasping skyward like prayerful fingers
clawing at sunflame and blue-bowl air.

Creatures of fur, feather, and shell
have come to live
within the cathedral-calm
of the tree’s quiet grace,
its leafy hush dancing gently
in the breeze-song of life.

Hollowed branch-chambers cradle squirrels
who scamper across limb-paths,
gathering acorn-bullets and berry-treasures.
Songbirds weave grass-threaded sanctuaries
first the pale-shelled eggs,
then the soft-open beaks,
tiny hunger-mouths calling skyward.
Oh, how great and endless
the passing of time feels here.

Ants in armor-black processions,
leaf bugs like tiny green ships,
march in quick-dart rhythm
to hive-thrones hidden in shadows.
A honey-globe hive swings
from a bough's elbow,
and the bees—amber-striped architects
buzz with pollen-dust urgency,
coming and going,
coming and going,
wingbeats strumming nature’s constant chorus.

Petaled firework-flowers scatter across field- colourful mosaic,
and butterflies—winged lanterns of the meadow
hover in nectar-drunken bliss.
The white bunny, cotton-puff soft,
hops shyly through tall grass-forests,
aware of sharp-toothed silence
lurking in predator-shadow.
So all—claw, beak, hoof, and wing
move with careful grace
in their dawn-and-dusk wanderings.

The weavers and red-billed finch
dip between river-hum and stone-kiss,
while the swallows,
like storm-oracles,
dance in spiral glyphs
to herald rain’s return.
The field—painted in wildflower-confetti
welcomes all.
Bees harvest sun-dust
to craft golden honey
sweet elixir of the meadow’s memory.
And in some nearby den,
a honey-hungry bear dreams
of golden-steal delights.

All life congregates
beneath or beside
this rooted titan.

Oh, great tree
what world-tales dwell in your marrow?
You, the watchtower of ages,
older and wiser
than the ones who seek your shelter,
who take your shade
with unspoken gratitude.

I wonder what dream-shapes
the passing clouds have whispered to you
what wind-stories
have sailed from hill to hill
through your listening boughs.
Bugs and birds,
beasts and beetles
all creatures great and small
find peace beneath your wide-fingered crown.

Who planted you here
in this particular cradle of earth?
Why this soil, this sky?
Where your root-knuckles
have twisted deep
into the rock-ribbed memory of the land,
anchored so that no storm,
no flood,
no clawing hand of time
can tear you loose.
Your strength is whispered
even among mountains.

And look at me now
a sun-dazed wanderer
sitting in your shadow,
on this white-hot day
when the sun scorches
the thin seams between
what we are
and what we aren’t.

From this perch
I see the valley unfurl
green-blanket plains,
honey-lit fields,
and grey-***** mountains
etched in distance.
They too are wise.
They too are old.

But I am human
and in time,
my needing hands
will bring more harm than grace
to you and your kind.

I come searching
for branch-wood to burn,
for the bunny to trap,
for the hive to pillage.
I come to hear the birdsong,
then take
from your silvered bounty.

I am flawed
a creature of constant appetite.
But this is the life I know:
to take,
and take,
and take again.

So tell me, wise tree,
what choice does the grass have
but to grow?
And is this not true for me?
Am I not just the machinery
of my nature
a construct bound
to the illusion of freedom?

How do we coexist
when my hunger outweighs my restraint
and we both know
that someday soon,
only one of us will remain?

Will it be you
ancient oak-heart,
storm-witness,
time-carved pillar
who stood through epochs
but falls
to the blade of man?

Where are your siblings
that I may take them instead,
and leave you
to tower on
long after my bones
turn to ash and echo?

Perhaps—just perhaps
my soul will seep into you
someday,
when I am dirt and shadow,
carried by worm-trail and beetle-march
into your roots.

Perhaps
we will be one
in time.

One post, then the next
likes are crumbs in empty rooms.
Echoes clap loudest.

He who fishes in another man’s well
often catches *****
yet still acts surprised when it itches.

Man who asks a question may sound stupid for a minute,
but the quiet one?
He stays stupid forever,
and probably votes.

Without respect,
man is just a loud ape with Wi-Fi,
grunting opinions and sharing memes,
swiping left on self-awareness.

Man with hand in pocket
feels cocky all day
but try shaking hands with that guy.
Confidence smells funny.

Man running in front of car gets tired.
Man behind car gets exhausted.
Doesn’t matter—both end up roadkill
on the highway to nowhere.

Wise man avoids argument.
Smarter man just watches you lose yours
with popcorn and a smug nod.

Man who stands on toilet
is high on ***
a true philosopher,
contemplating the flush.

Man who wants everything
ends up with nothing
and a storage bill full of regrets
he pays in monthly installments.

He who laughs last
didn’t get the joke until later
but don’t worry,
he’ll still explain it.

Man who walks middle of road
gets hit from both sides.
Diplomacy is great until the trucks come.

Life is simple:
ignore advice,
repeat mistakes,
blame the stars
or your horoscope.

Man who points finger
forgets three more point back
unless he’s holding a beer.
Then he points with the bottle
and lectures you on failure.

Wise man says little.
Dumb man says it louder.
And louder.
And still doesn’t know he’s wrong.

Man who chases two rabbits
ends up eating instant noodles
alone, in sweatpants,
wondering where it all went wrong.

Conclusion:

"Take joke seriously,
but not yourself."

Real knowledge lives where ignorance admits its name,
and when we meet the crooked path,
we turn within—not to condemn,
but to understand what bends in us.

He who learns without thought is a leaf on water,
and he who thinks, yet never learns,
builds castles on sand in a windstorm.
So begin with small stones
even mountains yield to patient hands.

The superior man speaks less than he does,
his courage not in clamor,
but in silent choice:
to do what is right, though comfort pleads otherwise.
He harms no one with desires he would not endure.

He walks slow, but he walks still.

Respect begins within
a flame that lights the eyes of others.
Revenge sharpens two shovels.
Sincerity, faithfulness
these are not ornaments, but foundations,
like stone under a trembling house.

Let the nation rise from the hearth
not from war cries, but from warmth.

Education births confidence.
Confidence lifts hope.
Hope sows peace like a quiet farmer.
And if a man errs, then smiles,
yet does not mend it
he stumbles twice, but calls it dance.

Wisdom comes in threes:
Reflection, which sees with stillness.
Imitation, which echoes.
And Experience
which carves its lessons into the skin.

Haiku 1 - Better Mad than Wet

Anger keeps me dry
golden showers lack respect
then trickle downhill.

Moral of story : better to be ******* than ****** on

Haiku 2 - Light a ******* Match

Breath like rotting pride,
they speak **** and expect thanks.
please light matches next time.

Moral of the story : when someone talks **** , just light a match

Haiku 3 - Morning Regrets

Man sleeps itchy ***,
wakes to find his finger’s stink
morning shame unfolds.

Moral of the story: Scratch wisely — what you don’t see can still smell.

Breath like rotting pride,
they speak **** and expect thanks.
please light matches next time.

Anger keeps me dry
golden showers lack respect
then trickle downhill.

We walk each day
on cobblestone mornings and dust-road dusk,
navigating roads both winding and narrow,
barefoot on thornpath,
laughing through lungfuls of sunlight,
not knowing the storm waits for us
just beyond the turning.

Sometimes the climb is breathless and weary.
Knees buckle on gravel-wounds.
Hearts stretch across silence-heavy hills
where even the sky forgets to speak.

But then, then
a breeze, a simple song in the air,
a bird-note flickering through fogglass.
Someone’s hand, warm on our shoulderblade.
A word of encouragement.
And joy returns like a hush breaking open.

Don’t take it for granted, dear friend:
the soft-spoken tea,
the way a child says your name,
the sun threading gold through kitchen blinds.
After warmth, the weeping comes.
After the dance, the ache.

This is life’s rhythm
storm-song, stillness, sunfire, ash.
Each season a lesson etched
in wind-script and worn-shoe truths.

Be thankful when the road smiles on you.
Drink from the clear moment fully.
But do not curse the falling rain
it washes, it shapes, it teaches, it renews.
It molds us into river-stone grace.

If you chase only firework-miracles,
you’ll miss the quiet bloom
of the reddest rose in cracked cement.
You’ll overlook the miracle of breath,
the mercy in a stranger’s nod,
the gift of just one more mile.

So walk on.
Stride slow.
The path is honest, even when it’s cruel.
No season, no sorrow, no laughter
ever stays.
All will pass.

And life?
Life is the footsteps we leave quietly in the storm.

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.

Oh wise poet, tell me something that is true...

In life, there are two certainties:
“Death comes for all of us,
and every man pays taxes.”

There is no greater truth than this...

Sun-born
Dawn-drawn
Petal-flame
Still-name

Root-deep
Mist-sleep
­Grace-bloom
Shadow-room

Sky-touch
Silk-clutch
Soul-bright
Lotus Delight

Morning eyes blur
   scroll-feed light
    coffee thoughts stir
      filter feels right

We laugh low
   while pressure climbs
     keep it slow
       and play the lines

We fake divine
   with half a grin
     say “I’m fine”
       but ache within

A meme lands
   but doesn’t stay
     with shaky hands
       we text okay

We wear roles
   in office glare
     with fractured goals
       and perfect hair

Storms run deep
   behind the chill
     we post, we keep
       the look, the will

Speak in trends
   with coded tone
     where silence bends
       we're not alone

Tears get saved
   for late night rain
     the smile we braved
       can’t hold the strain

When lights dim
   and stories end
     truth grows grim
       we can’t pretend

So show your face
   or choose disguise
     we all chase
       some curated lies

She entered
not walked
entered,
like dusk sipped through lace curtains,
like sandalwood smoke curling into cathedral rafters,
like bergamot on warm wrists,
like the last spoonful of honey
melting on a waiting tongue,
mine.

Cypress glaze glistened in her wake
bitter pine softened by wind-kissed skin.
She carried the scent of
crushed petals and promise,
of rain soaked through linen,
of memory you try not to name.
I watched her breathe
the rise and fall of something ancient,
something sacred,
something mine.

Her eyes closed
and the air thickened
with the perfume of surrender.
My breath slowed,
tasting of iron and figs,
salt from her lips still distant,
yet already staining my mouth.

The shadows bowed.
Yes, even they
those dark voyeurs
lowered their heads
to the holy hush of her presence.

She was the aftertaste of midnight wine,
the echo of silk sheets being pulled tight,
the hush in a chapel
just before vows.

Ocean sound
not waves,
but breath through parted lips,
warm and wet
like secrets exhaled between collarbones.
Her voice tasted like dark cherries and sin,
and my heart?
A cello string,
taut and trembling.

Unbound,
she peeled the weight from my chest
like fruit from rind.
Silken ground met our bodies
with a hush of crushed herbs—
lavender, thyme, rosehips—
the scent of unraveling.
Love wasn’t found.
It settled
like ash on sweat-damp skin.

She sighed
and it was warm butter and firelight,
the sound of a match catching.
Twilight cried in cinnamon tears.
A golden thread
frayed, glowing
spun around her finger
like a spell whispered in the dark.
I followed it,
hand-first,
then soul.

“Rest,” she breathed,
and it tasted like jasmine tea
steeped too long—
bitter, sweet,
inevitable.
But her voice stirred
embers behind my teeth.
She never meant for sleep.
She meant for ruin.

Air thickened
molasses and myrrh.
Her skin gave off warmth like bread
fresh from the oven
I could smell the hours in it.
Her hand
trembling constellation
slipped into mine.
Honeyed lips brushed against mine
tangy with wine,
spiced with need,
soft as a bite never taken.

Fingertips,
citrus-slick and stardust cold,
dragged rivers across my spine.
They sang.
They told me
who I had been before her.

Echo hush
not silence,
but the hum of blood in my ears
as she leaned closer.
Crimson blush bloomed
in places only she could see.
Sensual touch
velvet cut with silk’s bite
wrapped around my ribs
like a vow without words.

Candle breath danced
hot wax on skin,
scent of smoke and citrus rind.
Murmured depth
her tongue behind my ear,
voice caramel-dipped
and decaying every doubt.
Velvet trace
nails dragged slowly down my chest,
painting constellations I would worship.

And in that moment
the incense stilled.
the wind bent.
the stars dimmed.

Because love
true love
moves
like she does:
with teeth,
with silk,
with the taste of forever
in her kiss.

And in the hush where jasmine drifts,
your breath slows time, your fingers lift
the velvet trace of all we’ve known
a golden thread through dusk we’ve sewn.

Eyes closed, hearts bound in scented air,
where love is found, and stays, and dares.

I count my days
like petals torn from flowers,
soft and dying,
as cold rain
gathers in the gutters of forgotten hours.

I count them
those numbered breaths,
those sunsets swallowed whole,
mornings folded into mist,
every soft cloud
passing like a whispered ghost.

I count my days
as they slip beyond my grasp,
fading,
like echoes down a hall
where no one waits to listen.

Each moment seen,
each life I might’ve lived
gone.
Words I never spoke
lie heavy in the throat of silence.

I count the days
that passed me by while I slept,
as the world spun on
without me.
I count the days
since I lost my soul,
my reason,
since I gave away who I was
to please those
who never truly saw me.

Time moves forward,
a cruel illusion,
a godless god
a mental construct
more real than the dreams
I once held
like fragile glass.

Oh, the dreams I had...
like smoke now,
vanished,
off and gone
without ceremony.

They say:
“It’s never too late to begin again.”
But oh, if only that were true.

Time does not care.
It wounds, it walks on.

And here I lie
broken, sore,
facing the loss
of what I once held
and now have no more.

If I had known
what life truly was,
before it broke me,
I would have clung tighter
to each second.
Every moment gone
is a grave in the garden.

Every day
is one step closer
to what?
To less.
To silence.
To death.

I feel it in my marrow.
One day, I’ll vanish too.
And who will mourn?

I’ve walked alone
all my life,
an outsider
here,
but never truly part.

Love came,
and love went.
Loss slipped
through my fingertips
again
and again
and again.

My eyes have seen
the strangest things,
but never saw
that it would end like this
at the edge of myself.

The truth is:
you only have yourself.
Even love fades.
Even the closest
will drift,
or die,
and you
you will remain,
or be the one
to leave.

Alone.
Alone.
Yes
this has always
been my road.

Looking in
from the outside,
a silent witness
to a world
I was never truly
a part of.

Sunlight kisses
Morning dew
Shadows stretch
Whispers through blue

Raindrops linger
Branches sway
Insects hum
Time slips away

Footsteps echo
Dreams fade
Gravel cracks
Night hugs shade

Hearts wilt
Eyes close
Memory stays
Silence softly flows

Heart tightens
Soul frightens
Breath shallow
Eyes hollow

Pain grows
Silence knows
Lids close
Tear flows

Salt tracks
Hope cracks
Face numb
Thoughts drum

Skin chills
Time stills
Drop slips
Past grips

Hand near
Wipes tear
Palm warm
Breaks storm

Floor bare
Grief there
Cry done
Dark won

Where Every Kiss Becomes a Place
Let us not speak,
nor think of endings tonight.
Let our movement be silence,
our touch the language
softly,
not the empty sort,
but the sacred kind
that wraps love’s shroud around us
like golden threads of twilight light,
woven through your fingertips
and the hush between my thoughts and sighs.

A limber moon leans low above us,
its silver breath gliding soft
across crimson pale vanilla skies,
the last of the sun melting in distance
into soft violet streaks.
Even the horizon blushes
as you press your hand
against the bend of my arm
a wordless promise.

The scent of wild almond, jasmine trails us,
folding into night
with magnolia's sweetness
We walk the path before us,
unhurried,
barefoot and becoming.
Our footprints pressed in white sands
like an unspoken vow
the sea cannot erase.

Oh, this love
it tastes of amber musk and rosewoods,
a flicker in the shifting air
burning slow
with ambered warmth and playful touch,
like incense rising
to stir the heavens
and sharpen the evening stars
into thoughts,
and the sky
into longing.

Let us build our secret sanctuary
in the curl of the ocean’s sigh,
where every glance becomes a verse of a song for which we have no lyrics,
and every touch
paints love
in pastel strokes.

Your voice, low and deliberate,
threads through me
a silk ribbon tugging my name
from the silk of your voice.
I answer in skin,
in pulse,
in poetry.

There is no need to ask
where Eden lies.
It is here
in this soft constellation
we’ve made of limbs and trust,
where lips rewrite time
and our souls lie down
under the scented breath of dusk.

Hold me as if time forgets to move.
Fold me into the story
you’ve only ever told the moon.
Be the myth
and the moth to my flame .
Let me be the prayer
and the flickering candle.

Let us leave behind
not sorrow, but perfume
the memory of honeysuckle
clinging to air,
of warm skin
gilded by moonlight,
of footsteps leading forward
into forever,
where every kiss
becomes
a place we live.

Soft light
Velvet night
Gentle skin
Drawn in

Moon sigh
Hearts high

Flame bloom
Lips swoon
Fever lace
Timeless space

As Love Nears, Winter Answers
I do not greet the day with arms wide
no
I flinch from the light.
Love... is a slow knife in warm skin
and I, already frostbitten,
tuck my longing beneath coats of silence.

There is a chill behind your eyes.
Or is it mine?
Perhaps I’ve worn winter too long,
I don’t know how to thaw without drowning.

You came with a look
like spring pretending not to hurt
but I smelled the snow behind it.
Felt the avalanche between your ribs
and mine.

I wanted to stay.
But want is not warmth.
Want is a wound rehearsing trust
then backing away when breath fogs glass.

I am not made for soft hands.
I am made of doorways and drifts.
Of hearths I never lit.
Of letters I never sent.

So I leave before I feel.
Before the blood dares run hot again.
Before love comes too close
and finds no fire here.

I tell myself
it’s better this way.
To freeze quietly
than to burn
and beg
to be held.

Begin each day
not with conquest,
but with a quiet intention
to soften the world.

Let kindness be your language
before your mouth even opens
a look, a nod,
a held door,
a breath that makes space
for someone else’s pain.

Remember,
everyone you pass is carrying something.
They may not show the weight,
but it is there.
And still
they move.

Live in a way
that alters a single moment.
Change the hour,
the silence,
the heaviness in another’s chest
by choosing grace.

A coffee left at a counter,
paid for by a stranger
you’ll never meet.
A whistle that fills the void
where someone’s laughter used to live.

Be the pause.
Be the small warmth
on a day that began in shadow.

Empathy
is not an achievement
it is a choice,
a quiet rebellion against apathy.

As Whitman said,
don’t just feel for the wounded
become them.
Understand
without needing to fix.
Hold the ache
without fear of becoming broken.

When you give,
give completely.
Anne Frank knew:
you don’t grow poor by giving.
You grow whole.

And in the giving,
don’t seek to rise.
Let humility shape you.
Not the kind that shrinks,
but the kind that listens,
the kind that walks behind
to see the world through another’s eyes.

There are those that remind us:
the world pushes success,
but love asks for service.
It is not loud.
It is not proud.
It is not in the headlines.
But it is holy.

Be the one who says
good morning
first.
Even when it’s not returned.
Be the one who sits with someone
in the quiet
because their storm doesn’t need
more noise.

You don’t need to change the world.
Change a moment.
A mood.
A mind that’s spiraling.
A heart that’s closing.
That’s enough.
That’s everything.

There is no nobility
in being better than others
only in being better
than you were yesterday.

So become a little softer.
A little less certain.
A little more generous.

You are not here
to shine above
you are here to light the path
at someone’s feet.

Let that be your legacy.
Not your name.
Not your voice.
Just the warmth you leave behind
in the places
where it was cold before you came.

You don’t see the harm you do
why would you,
when the mirror only shows you?

It’s always your way or the ruin of all ways.

No compromise, no bending, just command and blaze.

You preach your truths like gospel fire,
demanding love, yet feel no desire
to see the wreckage in your wake
the hearts that break, the hands you take.

Empathy’s a stranger you never knew,
and guilt?
Just weakness in those who do.

Those who love you—oh, how they fall,
on blades you wield, denying them all.

You wear the crown of your own design,
and call it virtue, call it divine.

But your throne is built on shattered bone,and in the end,
you stand—alone.

Love is not a question whispered to the dark,
but a blossom daring the frost to bloom.
It comes not in thunder,
but in the hush between heartbeats
where silence leans in to listen.

It does not ask for witness or applause;
it is the feather drifting from a swan’s wing
as it cuts the mirror still lake of your being.
No blaze, no crescendo,
just a flicker of warmth laid soft on your soul
the feeling that rewrites the geometry of longing in all depths of understanding.

Many will search but you may find it
where whispers of gold dust gather on old windowsills,
in the unpolished spoon resting beside a bowl,
or the way your name feels
when spoken by the curling tongue of someone
who leaves quiet pauses for you to breathe in the moment.

Love wears no crown,
yet it rules the wind and raises oceans
guiding petals to fall where they are missed
and leaves to spin like dancers as they fall slowly
returning home from exile.

There is no map,
only the way the stars rearrange
when you touch the back of someone’s hand
and feel, for the first time,
that the universe answers in quiet.

Even in absence of all things, love sings its song or can be found
in the bent spine of a book shared once,
in the ghost of perfume that lingers on an old scarf,
and in letters written upon fine paper never sent
but folded like prayers
and placed beneath a moonless sky
as if the heavens were meant to understand.

To love is to step barefoot under moonlight in night air
into a cathedral made of warm breath and dusk,
to find within the remnant faint echoes of
a voice that calls you by your truest name.

Let it not be caged by expectation,
nor bent beneath the weight of forever.
Love is the art of being known,
even for a moment,
so entirely
that the world begins again
in the shape of your gaze.

Where Noise Can't Reach
Some believed I was a citadel
stone-walled, serene,
a monument untouched by storm.
Others glimpsed the fissures,
the tremble in my foundation
just before collapse.
But no one dared to knock,
to test if the halls echoed hollow.
They never knew
I didn’t run from people.
I ran from the famine
of being surrounded
yet starved of connection.

The inner silence I chose
was not empty,
but sacred
a chapel carved
from the marrow of self-preservation.
bright coloured mosaics
clouded dull
Because the loudest loneliness
sits beside laughter
that forgets your name.

I watched the world’s masquerade
faces polished like glass,
eyes glinting with absence.
Their words were confetti
bright, falling fast,
never meant to stay
blown by a simple breeze.

So I built my retreat
from quieter things:
dust, breath,
the pulse beneath thought.
I wrapped myself in stillness
stitched from nights that never asked
why I wept without tears,
my loneliness in the dark.

I remember warmth
like sunlight on skin
too long kept from morning.
I remember hands
that felt like promises
before they slipped into memory.
But I also remember
how a touch can vanish
even while it holds you.

Now, I live
in the space between collisions
where no one knocks,
no one shouts,
where the world forgets
and I remember
without bleeding.

Not lonely
just carved into solitude,
a sculpture of what survived.
Not cold
just hidden
where noise can’t reach
and silence finally listens back.

If an Angel Loved Me
If it whispered my name
into the hush between stars,
would i turn
or would the heavens shudder
and pull me deeper into their breath?

Even one glance from you,
one touch drawn from the edge of fire,
might undo me.
I would dissolve
like moonlight poured into a kiss.

For what is beauty
if not the ache of reaching
the sweet peril of standing near the flame
that chooses not to burn?

You terrify me
in the way a rose might
if it suddenly spoke my name.

And yet, beloved shadow,
I call to you.

Not in fear,
but in the wild hope
that you might step down
from that solemn choir
reach out
and touch me,

barefoot,
radiance tucked beneath a traveler’s coat,
your voice no longer thunder,
but rain on sleeping skin,
of the lost.

I would go with you
without map,
without question
if only once,
your wings bent low,
not to rescue,
but to rest
beside me.

Whisper, and the Stars Forget You
Who listens now,
when a voice breaks the silence like a wing through frost?
Not the flame-eyed watchers above
they burn too bright to bend.

If one touched me,
even with gentled hand,
I’d vanish
a moth stunned by the pulse of a god's breath.

What we name beautiful
is the mouth of the storm smiling,
just before it swallows the field.

We tremble
not at the scream,
but at the hush that comes
before it chooses not to strike.

Every seraph is a wound in light.
Every halo, a blade.
Still, I call.
Not for mercy,
but recognition.

You, bone-feathered keepers of silence,
what are you now
but echoes wrapped in ancient dust?

Bring me no visions.
Bring me the cloak you wore
when you walked with the blind boy,
feet ***** from the road,
laughter like something nearly human.

Your thoughts flood the stream,
minute after minute — something new.
Looking for a like, or a heartbeat,
anything to feel something true.

When words are meaningless,
scrolling in loops of empty delight.
Affection is a thumbs-up,
a random like —  just casting for a bite, like fish in an ocean of poets.

Moments drift and pass
thoughts engrained in time
dreams nest within our hearts,
eternal forever alive.

Echoes linger still
shadows soft on souls,
whispers of laughter lost,
tears never told.

Time may steal the day,
but cannot steal the spark
love once truly felt,
still burning in the dark.

For every fleeting hour
leaves fingerprints behind,
on memories gently worn,
but never left behind.

Your breath bends the dusk
Aurora kneels to your voice,
planets hush to hear.

Even stars forget
their songs when you pass them by
you eclipse their fire.

The Nile would forsake
its mirrored gold for your gaze,
a flood just to touch.

Temples lose their name
in the hush your fingers leave
divinity hums.

Moonlight wraps your skin,
like silk from Saturn’s wide rings
the cosmos blushing.

You are not of earth
you are the vow Venus made
before time could speak.