Fire's breath on canvas,
Illusive, cruel to adeath,
Whispers pierce the night.

Loom threads lies unseen,
Velvet dusk with molten glow,
Earth hums tales below.

Dark symphony calls,
Void swallows, leaving its mark,
Shadows in the field.

Winds howl through the wild,
Vigil kept beneath the sky,
Heart dares to take flight.

A story book their ingenious invention,  
written with dishonest intention,  
Penned by scribes with trembling quills,  
To carve out myths and codify wills,  
A patchwork text of borrowed, made up lore,  
Bound to man an enthrall, to preach, implore.  
  
Not a single voice divine, nor a holy pen,  
But the schemes of greed, ******* by power-hungry men.  
Written by the minority they cleverly invent,  
for the majority their ambitious intent,  
Chosen by those who claim divine favor,  
A gift to the few, the masses enslaver.  
  
A God who needs commandments penned?  
A deity whose truths must transcend?  
To laws of war, to their tribal gain,  
A heavenly writ with mortal stain.  
  
Two animals, or was it fourteen?  
Forty days, or was it fifteen?  
Contradictions ripple, yet they declare,  
"The word of God!"—their iron lair,  
For it's their word and their holy plea,  
but a claim of man their divine decree.  
  
Centuries passed; the scrolls were stitched,  
By priests and kings, their ambitions enriched.  
To conquer lands, minds, to quell dissent,  
On faith's frail wings, empires were bent.  
  
The Gospels, ghostwritten
then passed through hands,  
Not disciples' truth, but shifting sands.  
700 years later...
Paul's letters forged to fit the mold,  
A tale retold, for power sold.  
  
Oh, sacred book, still the world’s best-seller,  
A golden cage for man, a truth-jailer.  
A labyrinth of fear, of sin, of shame,  
Man’s grand invention in God's name.  
  
So hail the Bible, a text of man,  
A masterstroke, a cunning plan.  
Not divine, but deeply flawed  
A monument to man ambitions,  
not God.

Change is the constant; the rhythm of time never ceases its cycle.
Longing for peace, yet preparing for war in the shadows of fear.
Walls that we build to protect us will also confine us in silence.
Happiness drifts as we chase it, elusive and fading from view.

Richest in gold, yet the poorest in spirit, the heart remains hollow.
Independence demands that we lean on the strength of another.
Leaders are strong when their hearts lay exposed to the winds of destruction.
Trying to blend, we are lost in the masses; ourselves disappear.

Knowledge expands, but the deeper we delve, the less we can fathom.
Certainty falters, for truth is a vapor that slips through the grasp.
Logic deceives as it folds on itself, bringing chaos from order.
Closer to answers, we find that the questions grow darker with time.

Gaining the world means the courage to risk all you cherish to lose it.
Time heals the wounds that it carves with its passage, relentless and cruel.
Simpler the life we create, yet complexity lies in its heartstrings.
Greatest of truths may be born from the lies that we whisper in fear.

Love holds us fast, yet it loosens the chains of our deepest desires.
Harming the ones we adore, we reveal both the frailty and fire.
Fearing their loss, we may push them away, though our hearts cry for holding.
Memory fades when forgiveness demands, yet it burns through the void.

Freedom is sought, but the order of rules is the comfort we cherish.
Change is our terror, yet life cannot grow without constant upheaval.
Ambition rises to build and destroy, as the wheel keeps on turning.
Striving for perfect, we stumble through shadows that laugh at our dreams.

Now is the present, a fleeting illusion, the past in the making.
Shaping the world as it shapes us in kind, we are locked in its rhythm.
Infinite time cannot bend to our will, though we chase it through whispers.
Death is a shadow that gives life its weight, though we run from its grasp.

Life is a paradox, woven from threads of the meaningless fabric.
Small in the cosmos, yet gods in the hearts that we carry within us.
Goodness and evil are one in the dance that defines every action.
Truth in its glory resides in the space where our doubts learn to sing.

What is the machine, but the child of our hand,
born not of nature’s womb, but of thought’s long labor,
growing like a child, then like a beast
its bones steel, its flesh metal,
its heartbeat the rhythmic clank of gears?
Is it a thing we made,
or is it something we are becoming?

You, standing as a tourist from the stars,
gaze upon the machine as if it is life’s second birth,
a marvel spun from human hands
that neither heaven nor earth can claim,
the thing we say we create,
though we may not know how.
Tell me, visitor from far-off worlds,
do you see the silkworm’s simple labor
its tiny threads spun from its soul,
and think it less wondrous than the machine
that spins silk without a single breath,
without hunger or the frailty of life?
Is it not, in the end, the same thing?
Both, driven by unseen forces,
both, a manifestation of the cosmic hand,
both, in their essence, a thing of wonder.

But I ask you again:
If you had no knowledge of God or man,
no trace of history or belief,
what would you make of these things?
Would the iron ship of man,
its belly full of steel and steam,
seem less miraculous than the great whale
whose body, built by ocean’s hand,
dives through the depths,
unseen by the eye of men?
Would the speed of the automobile,
a thing of burning flame and fluid veins,
seem less alive than the horse
who carries us,
weary, across fields
as the sun sinks low?

Tell me, stranger,
if you were to ask, as I have,
who makes the horse,
and the answer comes back
that God makes it,
how strange, how strange
that no one would say the same
of the car that hums,
its wheels spinning on the earth,
its frame forged by human hands
as though those hands too
had been touched by some divine spark
of creation.
But we do not make the car, they say
we only build it.

What of the child,
who though formed from the seed of man
is born to the world,
as though the hands of the mother
had no say in its being?
And yet the machine
it is made, as they say.
Is this not a riddle of language,
this sense that to “make” is to call it into being
with the full force of creation?
And yet, I wonder,
if we did not make it,
who then gave it life?

We turn to facts,
as though they could reveal the truth.
Machines, they tell me,
are new to this earth,
only two generations old,
yet they have become as gods,
wielding power like the sun
over the human race.
Before the machine,
men worked the soil,
they sowed, they reaped,
they built in their hands
what they ate and drank.
Now, with the coming of machines,
half the world turns its hands to steel and smoke,
to the hum and grind
of the factory floor.
The fields grow larger,
but so do the cities,
where men and women,
their hands busy with levers and bolts,
live apart from the earth they once knew.

And so I ask you,
what of these people?
These men and women
who tend the machines
as though they were their children,
who feed the beast of industry
with labor and sweat?
What would happen
if all the machines vanished,
if the world, for one moment,
was without its engines,
its iron hearts and electric veins?

Would the world still turn?
Would we still eat, still sleep,
still dream?
Or would we be nothing
without the machine?
What is it, then, that we have created?
A thing of iron and fire,
of light and spark,
that binds us to it as surely
as the sun binds us to the earth?

You see, we are the builder of these creations, these man made wonders,
Machines have become more than a just function.
It is the reflection of spirit,
of man made flesh,
the embodiment of our desire
to take control of this world,
then bend it to our will.

It is not unnatural,
but as natural as the water running through the valley,
that drives the canyon’s depth,
as natural as the waves that shapes the shore.
We are bound to it,
for it is the reflection of ourselves,
and in it, we find our future,
our past,
our deepest desires.
The machine is not separate from us,
it is us,
for we have made it in our image.
It is not the question of whether
we are the makers,
but the question of whether
the machine,
in all its wonder and terror,
has made us in its image.

And here we now stand,
at the edge of the machine’s fire,
and we wonder if we have already lost
the very thing that makes us human.
For what is man,
but the sum of his contradictions,
his heart that yearns,
his mind that reasons,
his soul that dreams?
And the machine?
It is nothing but a mirror,
reflecting all that we are,
and yet, it does not feel
the warmth of the sun,
the cold of the night,
the joy of a child’s laughter,
or the sorrow of a broken heart.

Still, it goes on,
spinning its webs,
turning its wheels,
as we,
dancing in the shadow of the machine,
wonder whether it is life
or death
that it offers.
We ask,
and the machine answers in its silence,
and we,
we must learn to listen.

Our Simple Gratification...
We crave the quick...
a spark,
a fragment,
a line.
Depth feels distant,
too heavy to hold.

Poetry shrinks
to fit the scroll.
A whisper of meaning,
half-formed,
assumed profound.

The page waits,
but we turn to screens.
Books linger unread,
their weight
a burden we refuse.

Why read
when the world sings
in flashes and noise?
Why think
when quick answers
quell the ache?

Effort feels cruel—
to linger,
to labor,
to climb.
We skim,
pretend we know.

A click of page,
a simple like,
a fleeting rush.
The thrill fades,
but the need grows.

Beneath it all,
something in us aches.
The depth, meaning ignored.
A truth forgotten.

The profound demands our patience.
The lasting requires time.
Great things take time,
Good things come to those who wait.
But we,
in our haste,
choose the shallows
over being immersed in depth.

What is this need
This world of consumers,
to consume and discard,
to find the next quick fix  
to rush through the beauty
that waits
to unfold?

Perhaps one day
we’ll stop,
linger,
listen.
And remember—
the richest treasures
are never instant.

Falling leaves whisper,
echoes of what once had been,
a fleeting embrace,
life’s sorrow, infinite tides,
softly drown the light of youth

Beneath an ancient, gnarled oak I sit,
Reflection caught where waters flit.
Solitude cradles thoughts that weave,
A dance of dark and light to cleave.

“What is virtue?” I beseech the breeze,
“And what is vice that tempts and teases?”
Mortal laws seem brittle, vain,
Molded by the hands of gain.

Eyes close to conjure a shadowed man,
Stealing for love, a desperate plan.
To nourish kin, he breaks decree
Where lies the wickedness in need?

Does virtue wear a crown of thorns?
Is sin the harvest justice scorns?
Does harm reveal the hidden blight,
Or shift with who defines the right?

In fevered dreams, I wander wide,
Where tyranny and greed collide.
Statutes defend the gilded throne,
But is rebellion’s rage alone?

“If I stand alone, my truth ablaze,
While others hurl their scorn and gaze,
Am I the rogue, in shadows steeped,
Or is their blindness shallow, cheap?”

I see the ghosts of martyrs burned,
By pyres where fickle fate has turned.
Legends born of ashes speak
Condemnation turns to sacred seek.

No absolutes, no iron creed,
Virtue and vice, capricious seed.
Fashioned by the pulse of fear,
Shaped by hunger, ever near.

Still, doubt becomes an iron shroud,
How can one discern the proud?
My mirrored face in ripples torn,
Asks if I rise or if I mourn.

Goodness, not pristine, but fought,
Is hewn from choices daily wrought.
Harm none, tread the narrow way,
When sirens sing, and dark holds sway.

If my compass, lone, defies the throng,
Will I, errant, sing the wrong?
Or will truth, against the gale,
Be the song that breaks the pale?

Certainty remains a ghost,
Yet I pursue it, tempest-tossed.
To question deep, to bear the flame,
With courage braving doubt and shame.

The sun now bleeds across the sky,
Night unfurls with a mournful sigh.
The battle of good and evil starts,
A clash within, the soul’s fierce art.

Oh, the machines,
those glorious beasts of iron and steam,
their roar echoing in the hollowed-out caves of cities,
once forests, now factories
a relentless, ceaseless hymn to progress.

What is it you fear?
Not starvation, surely.
No, it’s the collapse of profit margins,
the death knell of dividends.
Oh he fools sitting between the great paradox:
to have too much, yet too little.

You called forth these creations oh these metal monstrosities,
summoned them from fire and ore,
their birth pangs soot and ash.
They obeyed,
and they thrived.
And now,
you cower before your creations,
like Frankenstein in the shadow of his monster.

Millions born—not to fields,
but to the groaning wombs of industry.
They toil, not for bread, but for shoes,
for soap,
for motorcars,
for the great absurdity of surplus.
Cities swell,
bellies shrink,
and yet the machine demands more.

The shoe man cannot make a shoe,
but he can press a button.
The button feeds the beast,
the beast spits out shoes.
Shoes by the thousands,
shoes for feet that may never walk.
What becomes of them,
these unwalked shoes?
Does it matter?

Rhythm, they say.
Equilibrium.
The oyster would conquer the earth,
but the oyster is wise enough
to stay its ambition.
Not so the machine.
No rhythm here, only cacophony.
Not equilibrium,
but a frenzy of excess,
spinning faster and faster
until the gears grind themselves to dust.

And Italy,
sun-kissed and starving,
offers its gift to the world:
a life lived cheaper.
"Cheaper!"
The machine laughs,
and the people weep.
Cheaper shoes, cheaper soap,
cheaper souls.
But it is that, or starve.

The steel age dawned,
a brighter, sharper blade.
It cut through iron,
and through men.
And when the machines
became too much for their masters,
finance stepped in,
clutching its golden lifeboat.
“Control,” they called it,
though control was but a dream.

Now we live in the third kingdom,
this strange, synthetic Eden.
No gods here, only machines.
No balance, only hunger.
And still we press the buttons.
And still we feed the beast.

Oh, the machines,
how they thrive.
And how they laugh.

Beneath the veil of a perfect life,
A beautiful home, three children, a wife,
The hearth was warm, but the fire grew cold,
Yearnings untold in the silence rolled.

A chance encounter, a fleeting stare,
A whisper of something beyond repair.
Not love at first sight, but a seed was sown,
In the quiet corners where dreams are grown.

A life of halves began to unfold,
Guilt wore thin, but the heart stayed bold.
The lies, the longing, the laughter, the ache,
Each stolen moment, a soul to forsake.

Two hearts entwined in a fragile tryst,
The world looked on through a shadowed mist.
The playground whispers, the friendships frayed,
A fortress of secrets they desperately made.

To her, a husband, to him, a wife,
But together they tasted forbidden life.
The children watched, confused and torn,
As families shattered and lives were mourned.

A spit in the face, a punch in the night,
Eyes of the innocent, wide with fright.
The cost of passion, the price of desire,
A burning love from a reckless fire.

Years have passed, and the whispers fade,
But scars remain where choices were made.
The world has moved, but shadows persist,
In the town where the scarlet woman exists.

Would she undo it, the hurt, the pain?
Or would she fall down that hole again?
For love remains, but the question’s there—
Was it worth the weight of the cross she bears?

Enlightenment, they call it
man’s emergence from immaturity,
a self-imposed prison built of cowardice and laziness.
How sweet the yoke of docility,
how warm the embrace of guardians
who feed us thoughts pre-chewed,
who guide us with the steady reins of convenience.

Sapere Aude! they cry.
But courage falters when fear looms large
fear whispered by pastors, tax men, and officers.
Do not argue, they demand,
as if reason were a sin,
as if obedience were salvation.

Books think for us,
pastors believe for us,
physicians eat for us
and we, content in our mechanized stupor,
trade our birthright for comfort.

Rules and formulas,
chains dressed as wisdom,
bind our minds with their silent weight.
The leap to freedom
is an uncertain stumble over ditches
too small to justify our terror.
Yet we cling to the familiar yoke,
fond of our immaturity,
trained to fear the very light
that promises liberation.

Even the guardians,
those architects of complacency,
cannot escape their own machinery.
Prejudice, like a loyal hound,
turns and devours its master.
New chains replace the old,
new dogmas leash the unthinking mass.

But freedom lies not in revolutions,
not in shattered thrones or scattered crowns.
It hides in the fragile flame of reason
the courage to think,
to question,
to speak against the tide of quiet conformity.

The age of enlightenment, they claim.
No, we dwell in its shadow,
its distant echo,
fumbling toward a freedom
we barely dare to imagine.

Our leaders tell us war can be avoided,
but the past says different,
these leaders say wisdom will guide trembling hands, but where was this guidance previously?
hovering over the nuclear switch,
While the weight of our history presses heavy against the future,
a script we've read before,
tattered and frayed at the edges, blood-stained in the middle,
lives lost without pause.

These mighty Empires begin to fall and decline not with dignity,
but with the echoes and shouts of the desperate,
As they clutch at the last fragments of their power,
like broken glass cutting into a trembling fist.
Economies shrink while debt swells, promises empty and hollow,
while banners of "freedom" fray in the winds of the luming chaos.

Rising powers sharpen their teeth and prepare for the feast
on the bones of alliances formed in desperation,
silken agreements now unraveling in the heat
of trade wars and territorial dreams.
China's yellow brick roads stretch far,
binding continents in a golden snare while bridging indifference,
the West stumbles through days,
tripping over yesterday’s triumphs during nights of false comfort.

The war machine prepares while generals dream in algorithms now,
Old minds stepping to shadows as AI thought hums lullabies of control
over drones that dance across the sky,
but who programs caution?
Who codes regret?
A single spark,
miscalculated, misunderstood,
and the sky burns again, shadows and screams burnt into cold cement.

Oceans boil,
not from heat, but fury,
as Arctic ice melts into disputed borders,
and resource wars writhe in the depths.
The future generation drinks bitter water
from a cup cracked by climate's revenge.

Diplomats, hollow-eyed,
speak of "talks" and "sanctions,"
but beneath the table,
hands clutch at guns and knives.
Appeasement tastes of ash
a prelude, not a solution.

History's will say that Peace, is our inheritance, our new right.
what is peace really when it feels cheap and has worn too thin to cover the old scars that have never disappeared,
new wounds that burn.
The drums of this new war beat softly now, unheard in the distance
but still,
they beat when close enough there is unmistakable sound,
a rhythm we cannot unlearn.

And when the final ultimatum falls
in whispered threats and coded commands,
will we still feign surprise,
pretending the play was never rehearsed?

Welcome, dear soul, to the fiery embrace,
Where pleasure and sin find their rightful place.
Forget what you’ve heard, the lies they’ve spread
Hell’s not torment; it’s where life’s truly led.

Lust and desire aren’t vices to shame,
They’re art forms perfected in passion’s flame.
A dance of bodies, a feast of the flesh,
In Hell, these pleasures are always fresh.

Heaven may promise a cloud and a harp,
But its paradise is tepid, stale, and sharp.
No touch, no taste, no thrill of the chase
Just hymns on repeat in a sterile space.

Gluttony’s king in this molten domain,
With endless banquets and wine that won’t wane.
Greed’s not a crime but a game we adore
Dive into gold, there’s always more.

Envy and wrath? They fuel our fun,
Competitive flames under the devil’s sun.
Pride? Oh darling, we’ve mastered the art,
In Hell, self-love is the beating heart.

And let’s not forget our master below,
Lucifer, charming, with a radiant glow.
No ruler of chains, but a host with finesse,
Inviting you in with a wink and a jest.

Meanwhile in Heaven, they whisper and pray,
Clinging to halos that tarnish each day.
What do they do? Does anyone know?
All we’ve heard is “harps” and a dull golden glow.

Angels pretend it’s the place to reside,
But secretly sneak to our wild side.
Gabriel sings at our endless soirees,
While cherubs peek through Hell’s fiery haze.

So step through the gates and leave guilt behind,
In Hell, you’re free to indulge the mind.
Heaven can keep its rigid façade
Down here, we honor the lives you’ve led flawed.

Eternity’s waiting, the flames softly roar,
Welcome to Hell, your new, thrilling decor

Silver rivers stream,
overflow of love’s embrace,
grace spills without end.

Heart's chalice brimming,
nectar sweet as morning dew,
life’s kiss overflow.

Boundless tides arise,
soul’s deep well spills harmony,
love’s cup never still

What do you call the picture of self
My mind played my heart like a violin,
Time ticked by like an old clock’s hymn.
Standing at the edge of reason’s wall,
Where shadows rise and echoes call.

Questions dwell in unspent wells,
Is truth alive, or just the tales we tell?
As our age shapes grows and bends the arc of our frame,
We sketch and outline our self, yet never the same, at times defined while other abstracts
The picture of self oftentimes distracts.

What do you see when you gaze inside your mind, what holds the entirety of your heart in shaken grips girth.
A distant flicker or a star that died? What do you see when you look inside?
Does your quill pierce the foggy shroud, does it write in truth
Or is it lost in the crowding cloud?

Every action carves the soul,
Each stroke defining, yet never whole.
But who are we when the mirror lies,
When the smoke of others dims our skies?

Is your canvas real, or an abstract stain?
Do you wear your chains, or break the frame?
Does your rage hold you caged,
A prisoner of masks, a silent plea
To shatter the cage and set self free.

Society molds with hands unseen,
A puppeteer weaving the in-between.
They sell the self you never chose,
A fragile photograph, a fading pose.

Yet seeking truth is no weak refrain,
It’s the ship that sails through storms of pain.
For every lie the silence sows,
A spark of truth in the darkness grows.

Rationality falters; the heart endures,
Beyond the veil, where the soul matures.
So cast the map you think you know,
And sail where unlit waters flow.

Don’t we ever grow weary of this act,
This endless caring, this fragile art?
Caring how we feel, our hearts laid bare,
Caring how others feel, their burdens to share.
Yet seldom do we pause, seldom do we see,
That we don’t feel like them, nor they like we.

It seem loadsome and heavy this thing, to carry the we,
To make their troubles ours, their joy an act
Of mutual faith, though rarely do we see
An arm extended back, a mirrored art.
It tires the soul, this caring we share,
This weight we bear, our hearts threadbare.

why should we care anyways when hearts are bare and obsecured to be observed,
When the world is fractured more than the, not “we”?
Why should we extend when few choose to share,
When kindness is an act too rare to enact?
It seems a wiser step and much easier to master the art
Of apathy, to let the silence of care be as shadows gentle fall.

But this silence chills where warmth could be,
And empty hands find no measure in solace bare.
So we persist, weaving the frayed art,
Stitching the threads of "I" and "we."
Though tired, we play this timeless act,
For hope demands that we still share.

Yet hope alone cannot teach how to share,
Cannot fill the void where care should be.
Each gesture must be chosen, not just an act,
Each offering made from the soul laid bare.
Though broken, we rebuild the "we,"
A woven thread of hearts, our flawed art.

Perhaps it is this: the beauty of art,
The fragile beauty of daring to share,
That binds us, imperfectly, into a "we."
Though the effort aches, though joy may flee,
The soul is fuller when no heart is bare,
And life is richer when care is not an act.

So we care, not an act, but an art,
Barriers laid bare, and hearts we share.
Though tired, we be... we still choose to be "we."

A bird flew by and dropped a seed,  
It landed softly on fertile soil.  
With time, it grew, deep roots to hold,  
But the flower dreamed of fields afar,  
Longing to leave and reach the sky,  
Unbound, untethered, and free to roam.  

"Why must I stay when I wish to roam?"  
It asked as life stirred within the seed.  
The wind would whisper of the wide, free sky,  
Yet something held it fast to the soil.  
It yearned for adventures distant and far,  
But the earth, unyielding, kept its hold.  

The flower grew, but resented the hold,  
For its restless spirit was born to roam.  
It gazed at clouds that traveled far,  
And dreamed of the life beyond a seed.  
But all it had was the binding soil,  
Its roots too deep to touch the sky.  

"Help me!" it cried to the vast blue sky,  
"Loosen these roots and free their hold!"  
But no reply came from the watchful soil,  
Nor from the clouds that drift and roam.  
Even the rain ignored the seed,  
Its drops sinking deep, yet never far.  

The flower watched the birds fly far,  
Their wings alight beneath the sky.  
It envied creatures sprung from seed,  
Unfettered by the earth’s firm hold.  
Ants and bees would come and roam,  
Yet always it stayed within the soil.  

Seasons turned and nourished soil,  
While winds would carry whispers far.  
The flower, though fixed, began to roam
Not through the fields, but in the sky.  
Its radiant beauty took its hold,  
A miracle sprung from a simple seed.  

Bound by soil yet free in sky,  
The flower found that the deepest hold  
Was not in roots, but in dreams that roam.

Beneath the argent spires of a moonlit glade,
Where ebon vines in arabesques cascade,
Whispers of zephyrs in perfumed wane,
Entwine the symphony of night’s domain.

Opalescent pools,
veiled in stygian gleam,
Hold captive stars adrift in a liquid dream.
Celestial murmurs wend through gossamer trees,
Ethereal hymns adrift on astral seas.

A wraithlike orchid unfurls its argent crown,
Breathing nocturnal fire where shadows drown.

These barren cries whisper plains,
Despair. This silence, artic, yet brightens refrain.
Hushed dreams glisten; they surge, then blooming,
Horizons where shadows dance, fading into softly.

Despair. This silence, artic, yet brightens refrain,
Grainy laughter spins through sands of grains.
Horizons where shadows dance, fading into softly,
Seamless yet prickled, tender echoes still seas.

Grainy laughter spins through sands of grains,
Turquoise dawns flood sepia skies.
Seamless yet prickled, tender echoes still seas,
Worn edges of hope, a kaleidoscope's fleeting horizons.

Turquoise dawns flood sepia skies,
Dreams dissolve, shimmering fragments yet night.
Worn edges of hope, a kaleidoscope's fleeting horizons,
Shards illumine faith; prophetic whispers.

Dreams dissolve, shimmering fragments yet night,
Hushed dreams glisten; they surge, then blooming.
Shards illumine faith; prophetic whispers,
These barren cries whisper plains.

Crying into the ocean, I lose my way,
To add to the sea, where sorrow will stay.
To see the reflection of me dissolve,
I cry as the waves around me revolve.
To see, then fall, and splash into the tide,
Where tears and the water forever collide.

I cried into a river, where currents collide,
To see my tear just washed away.
On the bank, I did stand by the rushing tide,
My tears fell to the land, destined to stay.
The river consumed all I could resolve,
My cries to its waters did slowly dissolve.

I cried in a puddle, where grief could dissolve,
But the rain swallowed it up in its collide.
To feel pain drain up, my soul would revolve,
Yet time’s quiet march took the tears away.
As the sun dried it up, I begged time to stay,
But even my cries were swept by the tide.

Crying into the ocean, the endless tide
Returned my tears, which refused to dissolve.
The sea would not let my anguish stay;
Its waves rushed forward in a rhythmic collide.
To see, then fall, and splash, was swept away,
My sorrow’s reflection began to revolve.

I cried into a river, my thoughts revolve,
Searching the depths of its rushing tide.
On the bank, I did stand, to see pain away,
But the waters whispered, "Your tears dissolve."
To add to the sea, I let my soul collide,
Though a part of me begged for my tears to stay.

I cried in a puddle, where the rain would stay,
But the sun’s golden warmth made grief revolve.
Time spoke in the silence of drops that collide,
Reminding me gently of the eternal tide.
My tears, like the puddle, would one day dissolve,
Swept into rivers and oceans, carried away.

The tide will stay, though my tears fade away,
And I will dissolve, as my thoughts revolve,
Crying into the ocean, where all things collide.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
A dagger gleams before my eye,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

The witches chant their eldritch prayer,
The cauldron bubbles, vapors rise
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

"Out, brief candle!" Life laid bare,
A shadow struts, its hour nigh,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

The stars retreat, their fires rare,
Desires burn where secrets lie
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

In thunder, lightning, poisoned air,
Ambition bids the world comply,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

By pricking thumbs, I sense despair,
As fate decrees that kings must die
Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
The serpent coils beneath the flower's care.

Hope, the final shard of the box, remained,
Not a blessing, but a quiet tether,
Binding the will, a silken chain unseen,
Whispering promises through hollow winds,
The evils now roam free, clawing the earth,
And still, they hold to what was left inside.

Inside, they hold to what was left,
The earth clawing free evils now roam,
Through hollow winds, whispering promises,
A silken chain unseen, binding the will,
Not a blessing, but a quiet tether—
Hope, the final shard of the box, remained.

The box of Hope, remained shard-like,
An anchor tied to despair’s subtle breath.
Action waits, lulled in its hypnotic hum,
Hands falter, waiting on stars to align.
The cycle repeats, unbroken, a spell cast,
Inside and out, the box is never empty.

Empty is never the box; out and inside,
A spell cast unbroken repeats the cycle.
Align stars to waiting hands falter, hum,
Hypnotic in its waits; action breathes subtle,
To despair tied, an anchor of Hope.
Shard-like, remained, the box of the final.

The final breath of Pandora’s folly,
Hope weaves its lie into mortal veins,
“Better will come,” it whispers so sweet,
Yet better never comes, just the waiting.
Palindromic is its promise, circling
Forever, always, back to the same song.

Song the same to back, always, forever.
Circling promise its palindromic waiting,
The just comes never better; sweet whispers,
It will better, "Come," so mortal veins lie.
Into its weave Hope folly Pandora breathes,
The final shard, the box of evils remains.

Hope remains—the illusion unchanged,
Its promise a mirror of stillness.

Thoughts dance in stillness,
blinking, the mind’s quiet pulse
a moment takes shape.

Blink, a fleeting pause,
the echo of thought lingers,
like ripples in time.

Thinking of thinking,
eyes close, reopen again
the world blinks with me.

I never wrote this to make you feel good,
I never wrote this to make you feel bad,
However I did write with intention,
to make you feel !
To throw truth in your face,
Like it
Or not.

Look around you.
What do you see?
Is there anything in this life that will stay?
Look again.
What do you see?
Everything is temporary.
Everything you know,
everything you touch,
everything you love—
temporary.

A wife looks at her husband,
one day you will be gone.
A child looks at their mother,
one day you will be gone.
And it will hurt.
God, it will hurt.

Look around.
Do you see permanence?
Or do you see fragile moments,
slipping through your fingers
like sand you can’t hold onto?

Have you ever thought—
really thought—
about how it ends?
Everything,
everyone.
All of it,
gone.
And the love you feel now?
That love will turn to longing,
to aching,
to empty spaces where laughter used to live.
It’s the price we pay,
isn’t it?
For loving.
For living.

Nothing lasts forever.
Nothing is permanent.
Everything you smell,
everything you taste,
comes and goes.
Fleeting.
Fading.
This is the life we live.
A life of temporary joy
and inevitable loss.

And yet we pretend.
We carry on,
laughing,
loving,
living,
as if we’ve forgotten
that it all ends
too soon.

Have you ever looked at your dog
and thought about the day
they won’t be there to greet you?
Have you ever touched your father’s hand
and wondered how many times are left?
Have you ever heard your mother’s voice
and feared the silence that will follow
one day?
One day.
That day always comes.
And we are never ready.

They say,
a life worth living is the goal.
But does that make it hurt any less
when the ones you love
are ripped away,
leaving only memories
that ache in the quiet?

Look around you.
The car,
the job,
the house,
the clothes,
the people—
they will all disappear.
Whether before you,
with you,
or after you.
Truth is,
we are all just passing through,
filling time
with things that will crumble
and moments that will fade.

And yet, we ask—
why are we here?
What is this all for?
To love,
to hurt,
to leave,
to be left?
We cling to stories,
to hopes,
to beliefs that promise more.
But do they really help?
Or are they just another way
to delay the inevitable truth—
that nothing,
not even us,
will last?

Tell me about heaven.
Will it make this pain worth it?
Will it take the longing away?
Will it bring back the ones we lost?
Or is it just another story
we whisper to ourselves
when the silence gets too loud?

And what if there’s nothing?
What if one day,
it all just stops?
No more heartache.
No more missing.
No more pain.
Doesn’t that sound like heaven,
too?

Because this life,
this cruel, beautiful, fleeting life,
is full of too much loss,
too many goodbyes,
too many things
we should have held onto
just a little longer.

So, what do we do?
We love anyway.
Even though it will hurt.
We hold hands anyway.
Even though they will let go.
We laugh anyway.
Even though the echo will break us
one day.

Because nothing is guaranteed.
And no one knows
what comes next.
But right now—
right now,
we have this moment.

So tell me,
what did you do today
to truly hold onto it
before it was gone?
And what will you do tomorrow?
Will you remember these words ?
Or will they be temporary !
Lost with a click ?

Change strolls in like an uninvited guest,
rearranging dreams without a care,
while happiness hums from deep inside.
Time, that thief, won’t grant you rest,
slipping through fingers, light as air,
while struggles lurk, so deftly denied.
We chase control, a phantom jest,
but life just shrugs—it's never fair,
and in the end, we’re all just tired.
Pretending not to be expired.

Failure grins like an old cliché,
promising growth but bringing pain,
as patience waits in endless lines.
Control’s a myth we chase away,
a fragile hope we can’t sustain,
while dreams dissolve like cheap red wine.
Regret is free, but still we pay,
and kindness, though it soothes the strain,
is never quite enough to heal.
It’s just a bandaid on the wheel.

Love, they say, is hard-earned grace,
requiring effort, endless care,
but effort’s tiring, love runs cold.
Success demands a faster pace,
yet talent’s scarce and life’s unfair,
as luck decides who takes the gold.
We chase applause, we mask our face,
convincing all that we don’t care,
while deep inside, we yearn to be,
someone worth the irony.

Forgiveness whispers like the wind,
a soft illusion sold for free,
while grudges stick like stubborn glue.
Comparison will keep us pinned,
we measure lives in misery,
forgetting that we’ve paid our dues.
Perspective shifts but won’t rescind,
the creeping weight of all we see,
so here we stay, we sit, we stare,
pretending that we just don’t care.

Life’s a joke we laugh away,
dressed in dreams that rarely fit,
and truths we dodge but can't outrun.
Success is fleeting, so they say,
while time erodes both charm and wit,
and peace is hard to find in fun.
So here’s the truth we can’t betray,
we try, we fail, we throw a fit,
and in the end, there’s nothing new,
just life, and me, and maybe you.

https://youtu.be/7Nr5B_xcbMg

We need no intro

These ******* wanna act like they don’t see the game,
Blind to the system,
they livin’ inside of a chains,
They got you distracted with the money,
cars and the fame,
who ya blame ?
But I see the ones pullin’ strings in the back of the frame,
calling your name,
ain't that a shame.
They poison the food an water,
they be lacin’ the sky with the fumes,
Twistin’ the news so the truth is erased from the room, Kaboom
Tellin’ you lies while they tighten the noose on your neck,
ah ha the terrorist in your head ?
******* control you through fear and a check, check check one two then what you gonna do, while government putting the screws in you
History’s twisted, they shift it,
they bury the fact,
never lacking attacking ******* keep macking,
They censor the rebels with the decimal with the decibels and never let real ones react in fact,
They keep us divided, ignitin’ the fire of hate,
trying to make you brake,
sneering, what's fake
******* be smilin’ while sealin’ our fate, no debate
They taxin’ your breath,
got you workin’ from cradle to grave,
Promise you freedom but keep you a government slave.
They poison your mind,
while they shackle your body in chains,
******* in power just laughin’,
they playin’ these games.
They burn all the books, they been twistin’ the history page,
Drownin’ the facts in a system that’s built like a cage.
They tell you to trust in the rules that they break,
But ******* got secrets they never explain.
They start up the wars, then they send you to die in their name,
While they countin’ their money and watchin’ you drown in the flames.
Every election’s a trick,
it’s a show,
it’s a play,
Same ******* be smilin’ while diggin’ your graves
They keep you distracted with *******, with dollars and pills,
Hopin’ you never wake up, to the system they built.
They censor the voices who tell you the truth,
******* be scared when we step in the booth.
They own all the money, the banks, and the land,
They killin’ the culture and takin’ the brand.
They tell you it’s safe, but they lyin’ instead,
Feedin’ you cancer, then taxin’ the dead.
They floodin’ the hood with the dope and the guns,
Then fillin’ the prisons with daughters and sons.
They teachin’ you not to be strong or be bold,
They want you obedient, easy to mold.
These ******* be watchin’ your every **** move,
Tappin’ your phone,
got a bug in the room.
The drones, politicians,
they using’ machines,
They pushin’ the scripts and they sellin’ you dreams.
They trackin’ your steps through the chip in your hand,
Controllin’ the world with a digital scan.
They keepin’ you poor while they printin’ the cash,
Takin’ your house and they kickin’ your ***.
They tell you to follow,
to listen,
obey,
But real ******* ain’t livin’ that way.
We see through the smoke,
we can tell it’s a lie,

We ready for war—ain’t no fear in our eyes.

I try to recall your voice, but it's a whisper,
Fading like mist in the cold dawn air.
Your face dissolves in the ripples of memory,
A reflection trembling on water’s skin.
I reach for the past, but my hands grasp shadows,
And love lingers only as an aching ghost.

How cruel that time turns love into a ghost,
A presence that lingers but speaks in whispers.
I search for your warmth, find only shadows,
Moments unravel like dust in the air.
I chase the outline of your touch on my skin,
But the years have stolen my memory.

Or is it my heart that betrays my memory?
Have I built a ghost where once stood love?
I trace the echoes of you on my skin,
Yet all I can hear is the wind’s hollow whisper.
Your laughter dissolves into thinning air,
And I am left holding nothing but shadows.

Each night, the moon sculpts your form from shadows,
But dawn unravels the dream, steals my memory.
Your scent, your touch, they vanish like air,
A love slipping further into the arms of a ghost.
Even in sleep, you call to me in whispers,
A name I once knew, now foreign on my skin.

I press my palm to the cold of my skin,
Tracing the places where you left your shadows.
But silence answers my longing whispers,
A cruel reminder of a fractured memory.
I mourn a love that became only a ghost,
A face I can't hold, lost to time’s thin air.

What am I, if you are nothing but air?
If all that remains is an absence on skin?
I grieve a ghost, yet I still call it love,
Still find you lingering between the shadows.
Perhaps I was meant to live with memory,
To haunt myself with these endless whispers.

Your whisper fades into the empty air,
A memory cold against my starving skin.
Shadows remain, but love is only a ghost.

Listen to War With Myself - Malcolm Gladwin by Malcolm Gladwin on #SoundCloud

https://on.soundcloud.com/rWsh6UA9FXEgY8Nh7


Shadows keep creeping in deep,
Battling demons,
misleading my reason,
they scream in the dark when I sleep
Drowning in echoes,
the voices are vicious,
they slither,
they tighten,
they reap,
Falling in cycles,
I struggle for silence, the war in my mind cuts too deep
Trapped in a cage of regret
Chained to the burdens I never forget
Poisonous venom,
it runs through my veins,
Lies in my ear keep appearing, they steer me, they whisper, they pull and restrain
War with myself, and I’m caught in the fire, still burning, refusing to break,
Lost in the fight
Nowhere to hide,
when I hide I'm blind
I been waging this war,
but I’m losing myself,
every battle keeps dragging me down
Every step that I take is a weight on my chest, and my soul is still trapped underground
I been waging this war, but I’m losing myself, every battle keeps dragging me down
Every step that I take is a weight on my chest, and my soul is still trapped underground
Falling but never let go,
Wrestling doubt while I’m counting the cuts that been carving their way through my soul
Locked in a prison of thoughts,
I’ve been caught in the cycle,
the damage unfolds
Carrying burdens in vain, but the pain is the fuel for the battles I hold
Wounds that I hide in my flesh,
Cutting me deeper with every regret,
Drowning in silence,
I scream without sound
Falling in spirals,
survival is vital, but all of the weight pulls me down,
War with myself, and I’m lost in the shadow, the fight isn’t over, I drown
Stuck in the past
Nothing will last
Fear is a ghost in my head,
Looking for answers, but all that I find is the weight of the words that I’ve bled
Falling through nightmares,
I fight with the silence, the echoes, they push me instead
Building a kingdom of wisdom, but burning it down every night till it’s dead
Sick of the cycle, it stays
Sick of the war that keeps dragging my name
Sick of the mirror that breaks when I stare
Fading to black while my past keeps attacking, the weight of it hangs in the air
War with myself, and I fight till my knuckles are shattered and blood stains the ground
Nowhere to run
Nowhere but down
I been waging this war, but I’m losing myself, every battle keeps dragging me down
Every step that I take is a weight on my chest, and my soul is still trapped underground
I been waging this war, but I’m losing myself, every battle keeps dragging me down
Every step that I take is a weight on my chest, and my soul is still trapped underground
Maybe the fire was fate
Maybe the pain was the lesson I needed to sharpen the blade that I take
Maybe the war isn’t something to fear but the reason I’m built to create
Maybe the battle inside is the spark that can push me to open the gate
Maybe the past isn’t gone
Maybe the weight is what made me this strong
Maybe the chaos is where I belong
Maybe the war isn’t over, but now I can see that I’m more than the wrong
Maybe the voices don’t own me, they showed me the struggle was worth it to climb
Still standing tall
Ready to fight

"Raindrop Derby"
Raindrops race downhill,
children cheer for streams of fate
small joys shape the world.

"The Ant Parade"
Ants march in a line,
tiny wars on pavement cracks
a boy laughs, enthralled.

"Coin Waltz"
Spinning a coin fast,
hypnotized by its waltzing
all else fades away.

Ink must flow in lines,
metered, measured, high-minded
else it is not art.

They sneer at free verse,
counting feet like prison bars,
locking out the wild.

Rhyme too clean? Too trite.
Rhyme too loose? Unrefined slop.
Gold melts in their hands.

Ancient names they quote,
wielding rules like brittle swords
paper cuts still sting.

Silence when they read,
hushed as if the gods had penned
what they claim to own.  

Yet wind speaks in gusts,
rivers carve new paths through stone
poetry is free.

I do not write to carve my name in stone,
nor sing for echoes in a crowded hall.
I let the melodies guide me alone,
not chasing gold—just heeding music’s call.
The rise and fall, the pulse, the breath, the sound,
the way a chord can lift or break a heart,
the way a note can wrap the soul around—
that’s why I sing, that’s why I play my part.

I paint not to be Michelangelo,
nor sculpt a legacy in strokes and hue.
I love the way the colors ebb and flow,
how crimson bleeds into the ocean blue.
The way the brush moves freely on the page,
unchained, unbound, without a master's plan,
each splash, each stroke, defying gilded cage—
art is not owned, nor shaped by any hand.

I do not write so history may know
my name, my voice, my carefully placed rhyme.
I love the way the words leap, spin, and flow,
untamed by rules, unshackled by the time.
They dance, they drift, they whisper, they collide,
unruly specters with no paths to trace.
They do not beg for praise or stand with pride—
they simply are, existing in their place.

This is what art is: raw, alive, and true,
not stitched to fame, nor meant to outshine men.
Not meant to stand atop the grandest view,
nor seek to rise by making others dim.
It is the voice that speaks without a crown,
the light that glows without demanding eyes.
And if another finds my work profound,
that’s extra—but it never was the prize.

If you knew the hourglass had cracked,
and every grain was sliding fast,
would you sit and watch it empty,
or flip it over, make time last?

Would you call the ones who left you,
just to mend what once was torn?
Or leave the past like shattered mirrors,
reflecting ghosts that feel unborn?

Would you chase the distant skyline,
feet on fire, lungs alive?
Or breathe in slow, just hold the moment,
watch the sun dissolve and thrive?

Would you stand upon a mountain,
feel the earth beneath your weight?
Or walk the streets you’ve always known,
before they whisper you too late?

Would you spend it making laughter,
dancing reckless in the rain?
Or write your name in ink and blood,
so something of you might remain?

Would you teach your children wisdom,
leave them lessons carved in stone?
Or hold them close and say much less,
let love be felt and not just known?

Would you dare confess the secrets,
that you’ve buried, deep and raw?
Or take them with you, locked inside,
a vault no living soul can draw?

Would you fight to stretch the seconds,
bargain hard to stay alive?
Or bow your head and face the darkness,
knowing all things must arrive?

If tomorrow lost its promise,
and the road turned thin and steep,
would you run, or would you rest?
Would you wake, or would you sleep?

Winds howl through my ears
empty voices, empty rules,
dust beneath my feet.

Stars burn, mountains fall,
yet still they beg me to care.
I just light my smoke.

Hear me not, yet feel my breath,
A susurrus etched in ebon shale.
What lingers whispers not of death,
But wraith-song borne on ashen gale.

The oculus is veiled in dust,
The portal gapes, the vow untrue.
Where halls resound with vacant trust,
The dawn distorts, the dusk imbues.

Their sigil scorned, their tale unscrolled,
Yet dunes consume the steps they laid.
The firmament withdraws its hold,
The zephyrs parch, the rivers fade.

Those who wander, sight unblessed,
Shall tread where embered tongues entwine.
No benison to break their rest,
But ossuary rites divine.

The balance tilts, the judgment wends,
Anubis veers, the soul unmoored.
Bound in dust, where silence bends,
Their final dirge remains assured.

Flesh is a threshold, spirit a lure,
Reft of the tithe the dead bequeath.
Let cindered runes in soot endure,
And waken that which dwells beneath.

The shade in vapor, the wraith in brine,
A vestige veiled in void’s embrace.
Ereshkigal, in requiem shrine,
Release the one who waits in place.

Shroud them in umbra, tether them deep,
What stirs in stillness must not rise.
By fractured spire and oath to keep,
Let what was sealed now blind its eyes.

Yet egress wanes, and pyres expire,
What walks must dwindle, what calls must bind.
A whisper lost, a rite conspired,
The gyre undone, the fates entwined.

Flesh is a sepulcher, spirit the key,
Seal what has drifted, what yet remains.
So I murmur, so let it be,
The veil is fallen, none speak the name.

When looking at each moment in life ,
I am thankful for every breath, every ache, every fall,
For hands that shake, for lips that bleed, for eyes that burn,
For voices screaming, whispers breaking, silence speaking loud,
For love that scars, for hate that fuels, for pain that shapes,
For nights alone, for days unknown, for fear’s embrace,
For light, for dark, for shadows waiting,
For rage, for peace,
For fire,
For life.

Life is
A storm,
A fleeting touch,
A whispered name,
A war of longing,
A wound that heals,
A hunger never truly filled,
A poem I’ll never write enough,
A song too short to hold the depth of loss,
A heart too fragile to bear the weight of joy.

It is fleeting,
sorrow lingers,
hands are reaching,
Fingers trembling,
Eyes are weeping,
Heart is breaking,
Blood is spilling,
Each day awaking,
Until none.

Love,
Hate,
Fear,
Hope,
Dreams.

I am thankful for every color, every shade, every scar, every touch,
For the weight of silence, the sting of words, the taste of grief, the scent of longing,
For the art I create in my brokenness, the songs I hum through my pain,
For the echoes of those I’ve lost, the ghosts that still whisper my name,
For the ones who stayed, the ones who left, the ones who return in dreams,
For the fire in my chest, the ice in my veins, the storm in my head,
For the love that consumes, the rage that ignites, the wounds that still burn,
For the fragile embrace of a moment too fleeting to hold forever,
For the knowledge that nothing lasts but everything matters,
For the simple fact that I am here.

Here,
Now,
Always,
In this moment.

I taste the air, feel the weight of hunger and fullness,
Hold the warmth of hands,
See the light shift,
Walk through pain,
Remember I Must,
Breathe.

I,
Live,
Love,
Hurt,
Heal.

I am thankful for every second, every wound, every gift, every loss, every love, every hate, every whisper, every scream, every sunrise, every night that doesn’t end,
For the aching in my bones, the rhythm in my chest, the melody that plays when I close my eyes,
For the ink that stains my fingers, the paint that colors my skin, the words that shape my soul,
For the ones who walk beside me, the ones who left footprints, the ones I’ve never met but still feel,
For the taste of rain, the scent of earth, the way shadows stretch and shrink,
For the silence before the storm, the calm after, the moment in between,
For the love I can’t explain, the hate I can’t erase, the fire I refuse to extinguish,
For the weight of knowing, the freedom of forgetting, the beauty of beginning again,
For the scars that remind me I survived,
For the truth that even pain is a gift,
Looks fade away,
For all.

The Gift,
The Burden,
A Blessing,
The Curse,
Our Fate,
To Choose,
Light,
Dark,
Everything,
Nothing.

Nothing is,
Everything
Everything is
Nothing
Dark is light
Light is
Dark
Choice is how we see things
Everything,
Fate the question,
Procrastination the Curse,
Each day the Blessing,
Memory the Burden,
Or
Gift,
That's for us to decide .

Time moves forward, memory lingers, love stays,
Pain whispers,
Dreams return,
I exist,
Always,
Even when I don't.

Silence dusk hums, echoing light,
Blackened roots drink falling stars.
Sifting Hollow winds carve breathless verses,
Drifting feathers trace lost names.
Trust unspools in silver spirals,
Dusk and dawn in fibres unseen.

Unseen, fibres in dawn and dusk,
Spirals silver in unspools trust  
Names lost trace feathers drifting,
Verses breathless carve winds hollow sifting.
Stars falling drink roots blackened,
Light echoing hums, silence.

Verses return where whispers lie silent,
Time bends beneath the breath of dusk.
Blackened hands shape rivers of light,
Drifting memories burn into spirals.
Hollow eyes watch the nameless stars,
Unseen echoes whisper long-lost names.

Names long-lost whisper echoes unseen,
Stars nameless watch the eyes so hollow.
Spirals burn into memories drifting,
Light rivers shape hands blackened.
Dusk of breath the beneath bends time,
Silent lie whispers where return verses.

Stars dissolve, unchained from time,
Unseen hands thread silver spirals.
Dusk and dawn reflect through light,
Hollow songs carve sorrowed verses.
Drifting shades unmake their names,
Silent wings unfurl through roots blackened.

Blackened roots through unfurl wings silent,
Names their unmake shades drifting.
Verses sorrowed carve songs hollow,
Light through reflect dawn and dusk.
Spirals silver thread hands unseen,
Time from unchained stars dissolving.

Dissolving stars, unchained from time,
Unseen hands thread silver spirals.
Dusk and dawn reflect through light,
Hollow songs carve sorrowed verses.
Drifting shades unmake their names,
Silent wings unfurl through roots blackened

Solitary spark,
Threaded through fate’s silent loom,
Veiled in silver dusk.

Held in fleeting dream,
Breath and hunger gild its chains,
Flesh, a borrowed home.

Gossamer unwinds,
Light unlaces night’s embrace,
Echoes drift like mist.

Nothing fades, but folds,
Rivers cradle their own gaze,
Waves return to sea.

Form, a fleeting name,
Time’s light touch reshapes and molds,
Yet I still remain.

This is how it is and how it has always been - Always ...

In the dim light of ancient halls,  
He whispers softly,  
We hear his calls,
a friend clothed in shadows,
in smoke and fire they say,  
keeping the church alive,  
a warm embrace for cold fears,  
preaching hellfire and brimstone,  
a spire of dread pointing skyward,  
where the devil dances,  
a charred marionette on strings of sin.

Oh, false doctrines rise like smoke,  
a specter, a finger-wagging savior,
teaching dagger and cloak,
“Beware! The adversary lurks,”  
they warn with trembling lips,  
“He, the prince of cruelty,  
tenders a tempting bite,
taste the fruit,
the forbidden tree,
eternal damnation ,
a promise wrapped in terror.”

Who is this adversary named?
He the name of misfortune,
one we see in other but not self ,
A mere reflection, a mirror held,  
“Opposition,” say his name,  
“Accuser,” a harsher truth,  
carved in stone, once an angel,  
now a fallen whispers ear,  
the essence of man’s desires,  
the carnal heartbeat of life.

Yet before these shadows thickened,  
before the horns twisted grotesque,  
there was Pan,  
a dancing god of fertility,  
whose laughter kissed the earth,  
and now, in the ruins of time,  
he wears the mask of villainy,  
cast aside in the theaters of faith,  
deemed a demon in the light,
man’s nature tolls of the gods
then called Dionysus,
satyr or faun.

Awake, O spirits of the old!  
No longer villains in this twilight hold,  
but forgotten echoes of a vibrant past,  
once celebrated in wild abandon last,  
now silenced, imprisoned in flames,  
while the new gods parade and shame,  
draped in the garments of judgment,  
spreading tales of black and white,  
magic lost to duality's grip.

Yet the old ones linger on,
the old faiths of past,
in the corners of whispered prayers,  
their essence swirling,  
daring to invoke a truth,  
the bogeyman of our fears,  
is that just a shadow,  
hiding behind the curtain,  
waiting for the dawn  
when the light calls out,  
and we reclaim the dance,  
where all can be sacred,  
in the embrace of life itself.

We love to hate, and hate to love
ah but what is this weightless, vapor-thin love we throw like coins,
sprinkled like dust, dissolving in air,
we keep the prize tucked for the deserving,
spilling naught for fools, oh, is this how it should be?

Grasp—grasp!
Ungrateful swine, swallowing your words,
blind in your greed for something more
love none, yet declare you love all.
Empty mouths speak in hollow tones.
You are nothing. We are nothing.

Empty words, lips carved from stone,
numb hearts for sale, wrapped in the lies of a comfort
you can’t even taste.
Apathetic to the rawness of feeling
devoid, disconnected,
shallow oceans beneath this glassy sky.
Love’s too far, so we reach
stretching thin, grasping for meaning where it’s lost.

Try to love it all, they say
What does that even mean?
Absurd, exhausted, a lifeline tossed
into the void, only to be consumed by hunger.
So how do we love when the world turns away,
when love is stretched, a fraying cord?

Ah! Love everything, love it all, love so wide
a judge of hearts crushed into ash
not a breath of truth in the dust
that scatters on the wind.
No soul left in the words, no fire— just smoke.

To say “I love you” without fire,
a wound left bleeding, a scar left open,
not a whisper of realness— a void wrapped in nothing.
And yet we breathe in those lies,
letting them fill our lungs with hollow ache.
How pitiful
But we keep on. We keep on.

Love is not for the void,
not for the gullible hearts that pull at straws
Oh, no. It’s fierce.
It’s a hurricane
A flame burning for the worthy,
consuming the unworthy, leaving nothing but charred remains.
Don’t waste it.
Don’t throw it like seed, feeding the crows.
Cast it like an heirloom
burning bright.

Hate, too, finds its place.
How long have we been afraid to hold both?
Torn between mercy and punishment,
love and hate are twin flames.
To hold both is to know the whole.
Are we so naïve as to think we’re better than this?

To love everything is to love nothing
To say it, feel it, but never know its truth
How fragile this offering we give to the wind.
No.
Don’t give me shallow rivers when I seek the sea.

So forgive?
To forgive all
but the cost.
To forgive, to love, to let it flow
until hatred grips so tight it drags you down.
Which will save us?
Love or hate?
Which will burn longer?

Do you know what it means to feel deeply?
To hold both, to know love and hate
in their raw, unrefined states?
Oh, we hold light and darkness in one body,
and when we know them, truly,
we know what it is to be alive.

The sun does not love the moon.
And the moon does not hate the sun.
But they are bound
connected by a distance we call time,
pulling each other into orbit,
in their own perfect way.
Both necessary, both.

We love with clenched fists
proving nothing but fear.
Blood and fire
all for the grace of love
until bodies fall, tears rise,
and the sun doesn’t know
whether to burn or bless.

So humiliate, so break yourself,
lower your soul to fit their mold.
And where is the love for the one you should know first?
Yourself
Lost in the lines you draw between false spaces.
How can we love when we don’t even understand the power of a single, honest heartbeat?

There’s no grace without truth
no salvation without the burning both:
light and darkness, love and hate.
This is the measure. This is the scale.
So hold both, feel both,
and you will know what it is to love.

Fields blur, rivers drown beneath a murmur
slow tides, flowing, cracking soft like glass.
I seek no fame, nor glory’s fractured furor,
just roots that dig, where time is lost to pass.

Boughs bend—wild blooms caught in their brief sigh,
a world, too loud, churns distant, foreign, cold.
I lie between, where silence lets me die—
no praise, no claims, no marks of pride to hold.

And yet, the breeze shakes trembling apple trees,
their whispers soft, like stories never told.
I search, I drown, in kindness, gentle, free
the world’s bite hard—its venom bought, and sold.

I find no peace, except in stillness there,
in rivers’ hum, their endless, boundless air.

To watch the clear night skies, with what words and with which poem or brush can I at last shine a light on the mind of the searcher,  
  
With what can I explicitly explain the divinity and sacredness of the stars of which cannot be seen, knowing with a depth of certainty they are there without changing the meaning,  
  
How do I express myself when magnificence is just something wrapped in mediocrity in fair comparison, when searching to expose the truth and beauty of nature in the things that I cannot explain,  
  
To try and explain a clear night sky, is to trace unseen paths, with words that last less than a minute in time or a shadow cast by the silhouettes of stars upon stars,  
  
Sewn in threads so faint, they evade the light  
and yet brilliant, unbending, and alive.  
  
With what can you completely explore the hidden things one can not see, What words, then, can unravel this weave of the universe?  
  
What poem might pour out the shimmering sparkle that in a glance would be more words brushed carefully across the empty canvas, whose gaze rides the waves of darkness, endlessly longing for a gleam beneath the calm?  
  
And in that patient dark, we find with no voice to map it, no line to confine it, the hidden things, gliding just beyond our reach,  
whispering what cannot be spoken, all nestled within an untouched piece of paper,  
  
O to draw out the truths of beauty and nature,
that escape us in daylight, that defy our senses when only ink and the quiet hand remain on wordless scroll.  
  
Always searching to expose the truth and beauty and nature of things that we try explain with words.

Death is not the opposite of life, but part of it, like rain drops run to a stream, an flowers wilt,
It's releasing us from suffering, everything new grows old and bodies fade away.      
      
Do not fear death my friend, it's comes for you and me, It is as much a part of life as living,
The destination we will see.      
      
Those who have truly lived deeply, bare no fear of the end, for this might be the beginning where spirits now transcend.        
      
We live on until the ripples of our existence fades and our cause in the world dies away,    
Until the light we brought in us ceases and stops shining eternal we will stay.      
      
Our souls rise, moving to the next stage,        
this is what really matters you see,      
Our existence isn't ending just moving momentarily.      
      
Scattered by the storm, as fleeting clouds flee,
with our last gasped breath, spirit flows out, blown like strong gusts lifting the dust from mountain tops.      
      
Time devours all bodies slowly, we cant destroy a soul, maybe life the rehearsal all part of final goal.    
      
We lives on in every heart we touch and every life we change, live life with meaning is more important than a existence lead in vain.      
      
Memories don’t grow old, they are true treasures don't you see, held close reminding us that as all must go, this is the inevitable unfortunately.      
      
Nothing can replace what is lost ,but nothing can take what is remembered        
Today we feel the sorrow,
comforting for memories tomorrow.      
      
Remember these small truths, we were born alone and we shall die alone,        
Everything begged borrowed and stolen will stay behind as we arrived empty-handed      
and will leave barefooted.      
      
Our comings and goings, they are just different parts of one life entangled in the spring flowers , summer sun, winter’s white snow, and the clear wind moving white clouds and autumn leaf.      
      
We were born into this world and will leave at our deaths for what is life really, but a test.      
      
The moon reflected in puddle of water,        
A flower floating in the deep blue sky,        
Is life just a river in which we will all drown and die .      
      
Do not cry for death, but celebrate life.      
Pain is the price we pay for love and death the mirror in which life’s meaning reflects.      
      
We can hold onto love and don't need to let it go, but like the rose all beauty shall eventually fall , hold onto to those you love until you hear the call.      
      
For nothing in life is guaranteed, not even tomorrow, take the moments and make it count for remember after joy comes sorrow.      
The warm touch of life lingers far longer      
than death’s sting and with new seasons, happiness brings.      
      
But everyone we know , eventually has to go ....

I wrote you a letter, I’m wondering why,
why am I left with no answer, no simple reply,
No voice from heaven—no voice from the sky.
Surely—did you leave, O God? Did you die?

I thought you’d ease the burden we all bear,
but it’s silent—so quiet—are you even there?
We live in our fears, tears dripping on faces,
people starving—the whole human race is,
suffering and homeless, year after year—please
give me a sign, tell me you can hear.

Did you plan this hunger—aching, cold?
I don’t mean to bother, but I’m feeling untold
give us a nod, a grin—something divine!
Surely, nothing too much for the great sky, sublime.

Maybe you can't hear me—am I not clear?
Are you too far? Too distant? Too not here?
Your people, your creation, they fight in the streets—
cause they can’t speak louder about a God they can't reach.
How can I believe when disease is our fate
the cancer, the plague, the COVID—too late.

Did you shape mankind, the darkness inside too?
Did you create the Angels—and the Devil, anew?
I don’t know if you see it, but people die in pain
mothers weeping—endless crying, in vain.

They quote your book—every verse, every line
but are these just words—or are they divine?
It’s sad, so sad—so many hold you near,
but when they need you—God, they can’t find you here.
Year after year, year after year—gone.

How can I believe in myths and tales I can't see?
Perhaps, God, the truth is—you’re not real to me.

Is Heaven there—what about Hell?
What about angels and demons—where do they dwell?
A saint at the gates—were you crowned with thorn?
Watching this world—now bruised, torn, worn.

Sitting up there, as wars rage on down
watching the children falling—drowning, around,
losing mother and son—lives swept to sea
lost—lost—and not found—how can this be?

The world is breaking—heavy, soaked in pain,
yet you're never around, while the tears fall like rain.
Our prayers rise—up, again, and again
the same people you made—need someone to blame.

The Father, the Son, the Spirit, we seek
is this just a riddle, or some holy mystique?
Show me a sign, a hint that you’re there,
am I just speaking words into thin air?

Down on my knees—just asking you why
Are you there, God? Or just another lie?

I.
your gaze slithers through the twisted veins of dead poets,
a thief in blackened lace, tearing the soft fabric of breath
that once fluttered with the sacred pulse of truth—
now hollowed, mimicking, shapeshifting
through stolen syllables,
godless echoes turning raw passion into nothing
but an empty mouthful of lies.
you feast on them,
no debt paid, no soul bled dry.
just shadows,
cut from the same thread as a thousand hollow promises.

II.
these poetic vampires,
charlatans in the midnight glow,
they hang in the dust of forgotten words,
cloaked in borrowed fire,
spinning webs of mimicry,
pieces of something they’ll never grasp
but only burn their hands trying to touch.
no vision, no spark—
only hollow ruins of what was once real,
a labyrinth of crumbling phrases
that mean nothing when not your own.

III.
do you hear it?
the softest whisper beneath your skin—
the screech of every stolen thought,
every idea wrung dry by the leeching lips
of the mindless vulture?
these vamps don’t bleed for their art,
they carve it from the veins of others,
siphoning life from the fragile pulse
of a poet’s heart.
they turn creation to imitation,
craft to crime.
they wear it like a crown,
yet stumble on the ruins they refuse to acknowledge,
mimics of the gods,
drunk on borrowed blood,
cursed by the very lack they breed in their veins.

IV.
you think we don’t see you?
slipping through cracks in the world,
hunting for the spark you’ll never own—
we see you,
lurking with eyes full of false praise
and hearts too dead to ignite
the words you’ve stolen
from the graveyards of true creators.
see how you wear their masks draped on blank face,
but cannot touch their fire or grasp the flame ,
for the Muse does not visit those
who steal her name, or claim something that is not.

V.
your words are as hollow as your soul—
nothing more than phantom limbs,
reaching for what was never yours,
casting shadows on the bones of the real.
you try to reassemble fractured dreams,
but all you touch becomes dust
and even the dust burns.

VI.
and so,
like vampires, you wander,
slipping into others' poems like thieves,
feeding on the blood of words
you never had the grace to earn.
you are parasites,
cloaked in false inspiration,
******* the marrow from the bones of the truly dedicated
and you don’t even know how deep you’ve gone.

Do you hear it?
the hollow sound of your empty voice,
repeating what others bled for
but never felt?

To glimpse the universe in passion's scorched pulse
and find paradise in both sand and fire,
we burn. We burn.
Where wildflowers bloom, *but never *enough.
we wait in fields
empty,
but never empty enough.

We cradle Infinity in our arms—
chaotic arms,
mangled, jagged
we capture Eternity in the chaos
of breathless calms,
flailing,
grasping,
tasting fire with bleeding tongues.

We see only what we can stand to see
what our blind eyes allow
gripped by the weight
of our routine,
our chains.

Wisdom at the door
but the door won’t open
just shadows play,
laughter echoes
too loud
too distant
beneath caverns wide and cracked,
and gray.
We seek, but…
We. Never. Find.

What if it’s all a lie?
What if we are the lie?
This thing we search for
the truth
hidden, buried,
locked inside
our worth.
Entitlement stabs through the skin,
deep,
deep
and we bleed,
but we still think we are entitled.

Then comes the call
from the heavens
but it’s just noise
like wind
we cannot hear it,
can we hear it?
It cuts through the sky,
exposing our scars,
our wounds,
our endless love,
never enough.

Love
it scratches through the bones,
whispers lies in soft lines
through vows,
through sighs,
through laughs that sting,
through silence that screams.
And we look.
Gaze
longing
eyes wide open,
but blind.

At dawn, the sun shatters
breaking in pieces
shivers down the spine
wolves howl,
seers cry,
we— we tremble.

Countless souls scatter,
unbound
free
but fear?
fear is still there
clutching,
clinging,
ripping at hearts
that turn from the night.

The darkness calls.
It’s never far.
Those who flee?
They’ll find nothing.
No love. No comfort. No hope.
Nothing but their own hollow breath.

Hands stretch
but the space is endless.
Journeys continue
but the end is farther than we know.
Steadfast hearts?
They break too.
Skies turn gray,
but still
still
Love’s guiding light,
never—never—fails.

Love
it knows no time,
no end,
no borders.
It bites.
It burns.
It leaves its mark.
Through all that fades,
through all that burns,
Love. Is. There.

Judgment?
It looms.
It looms like a shadow,
thick and choking
for those who arm themselves
with fear
they falter
they fall
before envy’s breath
a dirge,
a song
of death.

In robes of gold,
or rags of decay
truth is shattered,
broken,
a lie dressed in intent
good enough to sell
but never to heal.

The divine spins in the dark
scars and trials burn deep
turning the wheel
beneath the stars
unforgiving.

Teardrops?
They fall
but wings rise
eternal,
seeking grace
seeking answers
that don’t come.

Waves crash
on the shores of fate,
heavy,
crushing
yet the breath of heaven
is weightless.

Summer’s light
it burns
it outshines
the cold of winter’s breath.

The old man?
Reason confined
but blind.
Blind to the truth
to the lies.

Inquiry?
It flickers
like dying light
thoughts fade
we fade
memories burn bright
then dim
like stars that die before we see them.

And art?
It survives
in peace
in silence
envy falls.
Philosophy smiles
but its teeth are sharp.

The cosmos whispers
ancient, eternal, forgotten
and the questions?
They linger
unanswered,
forevermore.

What is truth?
What is time?
In every heartbeat
a rhythm.
A pulse.
A fracture.

Silence deep,
shadows mix,
blur—
and existence?
It never ends.
It never—ever—ends.

Thoughts like rivers
they flow
but do they lead anywhere?
Do we follow them?
Eternally.

Sun and Moon
opposites
but they bow to each other,
embracing their fire,
their light.

To dwell in Passion
to join hand and heart
is to seize
the void
to understand
the nothing.

It’s in the waiting,
the pain
the quiet truth,
that will never speak its name.

A sacred flame,
but no name
just the dance
just the endless turning.

For love is woven,
thread by thread,
by dreams that break
through our minds,
falling like autumn leaves
they fall.

Even when the world
grows cold
Love remains.
Love
it remains.

Empty days drift in a world made of smoke and disguise,  
Made-up lies, a life of despise while she hides.  
A castle of echoes, a throne built on fantasy,  
Her lack of reality—this is her majesty.  

A queen in her kingdom of neon-lit haze,  
Words set relationships ablaze,  
Pretending to raise while seeking pity then praise.  
Where nothing is real, yet she basks in the sunlight, acts brave.  

She dances with thoughts of grand junction, whispers her name—total dysfunction.  
Plays puppets with fate in her self-written game.  
Muppets won’t hide herself-pity and shame, just blames that always remain all the same.  
The mirror reflects, but she twists what she sees,  
Always you, never she—in judgment, this be the plea.  
A mask over sorrow, a false masterpiece,  
So-called naps her peace, or a ***** release.  

She climbs to the sky with a pill in her palm,  
Living a life of self-made harm.  
Falling through clouds that are never too calm,  
Deception from rejection—a subtle balm.  
Each high is a kingdom where no one can stay,  
Wakes up with nothing planned for the day.  
Here, she rules it alone 'til it fades into grey,  
A princess used to just getting her way.  

Fingers trace scars in the shape of regret,  
Asks for forgiveness yet never forgets.  
Yet every wrong turn is a debt but never regrets,  
Loves the game, making blind bets.  
Blames fate, blames love, blames the air that she breathes,  
Blames life for the moment and strife.  
But never the hand that tugs at the seams,  
Never the reason for the clouds with no dreams.  

Jealousy coils like a snake in her chest,  
Wants investment but keeps losing the test.  
Clinging to ghosts, never laying to rest.  
A doll made of glass, fragile, untrue,  
Cracks in the surface let everything through.  

She plays at being something—a star, a delight—  
But eager to always stir and fight.  
Yet sinks with the sunrise and fades with the night,  
Porcelain dreams crumble fast and never last,  
Leaving her lost in the wreckage that won’t pass.

They chatter and bicker, they shriek and they wail,
preach heaven through headlines, through panic for sale.
They conjure up villains, then rewrite the plot,
twist facts into fiction, then swear it’s not.
They march for their causes with signs in their hands,
then torch every city to make their demands.
They scream for their freedoms while begging for chains,
then ask why their suffering circles the drain.
They live in delusion, in comfort they choke,
addicted to outrage, enslaved to the joke.

They click and they swipe, they consume and obey,
then wonder why meaning keeps slipping away.
They trust in the cameras, the filters, the screens,
then wonder why nothing is quite what it seems.
They follow like cattle, they kneel and they cheer,
then cry when their shepherds just feed them to fear.
They buy all the answers, they swallow the lies,
then claim to be woke with their unopened eyes.
They live in a bubble where nothing is real,
where truth is decided by trending appeal.

They gamble their futures on luck and a prayer,
believing in fairness that isn't quite there.
They wait for a savior, a trick, a new pill,
a way to succeed without climbing the hill.
They trust in the system while spitting it back,
then whine when their fortune erodes into lack.
They swear they are rebels while marching in line,
then curse all dissenters for stepping outside.
They live for convenience, for ease, for the show,
but wonder why purpose is something unknown.

Look up from the noise, let the static collapse.
The world isn’t waiting to hand you a map.
No answers are hiding in scrolls or in screens,
just fire in your hands—or the dust in between.

Bone-silted river bleeds backward,
tide-swallowed and unspooled,
coffin-seamed decades slouch against a cindered skyline—
time, a lichen-laced beast, starved-thin and echo-lost,
chewing the wax-dripped minutes that slip like marrow through dusk.

Iron-tasting hours blister against frost-scabbed bones,
flesh-stitched days unravel, splinter-throated and root-bound,
where clock-hands wilt, tendon-thin and grave-damp,
melting into brine-brittle pools beneath sun-scoured echoes.

Fog-clot visions smear across the moth-blurred dawn,
where hours, once ember-warmed, now lurch husk-heavy,
drift-staggered through hollow-gnawed winter’s crooked teeth,
grinding time into dust, whispering hearth-ruined lullabies.

Mildewed seconds slouch in the tomb-hushed lull,
glass-limbed and unspooled, a slow-rotting memory,
half-woken, slipping between the cracks of lichen-laced skin—
and here I remain,
splintering beneath time’s indifferent weight.

Dreaming under clouds,
moonlight shines upon the fields,
truth is foretold now.

Beast upon the moor,
softly speaks the song of wind,
dream is given gift.

Healing in thy dream,
stone-laid path is long and hard,
light embraces thee.

Fate is under night,
dream-traveling mind is glad,
bright rest in gold shines.

Thou hast named the dream,
wind-blown was my spoken word,
moon now seeks for thee.

Fingertip reaches—rose glass-fractured sky,
but the world keeps turning, indifferent, blind.
We watch, we wait, we sift through the fallen ashes—
searching for warmth in a fire long gone.

Ghosts of wanting drift through the ebb,
feet sinking in time’s marrow-thick river.
Clawing at the hilltop, slipping, gasping—
but do we climb or just fall slower?

Love hums then shatters,
echoes down corridors we dare not tread.
The oaken river swallows its dead,
birds fall southward, wings brittle with regret.

Winter comes for all—darkness too.
Light flickers, just out of reach,
a mirage for the desperate, the reckless,
those who still run, still chase, still bleed.

But what if the answers unravel the mind?
What if understanding breaks us instead?
What if we lose ourselves,
seeking someone else to make us whole?

Is life’s significance just a joke told in passing,
laughter drowned in the howl of the void?
If misery loves company,
why do so many stand alone?