I don’t cry anymore
the salt ran dry.
I don’t look up
the sky stopped looking back.
I don’t believe
in believing.

Where are you now,
God of broken pages?
That book
full of thunder,
full of fire,
full of once.

Where are the miracles
when we need them
more than ever?
Silence
—louder than prayer.

You’ve
forsaken me
in my heart,
forsaken me
in my mind,
forsaken me
in my...

Why?

Oh the Innocence  
That laugh, that wild howling in the throat of youth,
Unseen fingers scramble for the last thread of light  
Here, the angels are naked,  
no wings to catch their fall.  
The river splits,  
splashes,  
and chaos is born  
from the lips of the unholy, the pure.  

There be our Divinity  
slips beneath the skin like rust on gold
a fractured god,  
broken in pieces,  
spilled across the morning,  
the moon forgets its name.  
Prophecies?  
Laughing in the dust,  
twisted and torn,  
a thousand whispers claw at the sky  
but none reach.  

Imagination is the distant echo—  
a door slammed shut by a thousand hands,  
and what vision is left?  
A trembling shadow.  
What light?  
What reflection?  
It’s nothing but a crack in the glass,  
and through it, you see everything and nothing  
all at once.  

Oh but thou Morality  
it’s a rotten fruit in the mouth of the blind,  
an oath spat on the ground  
before it crumbles to dust.  
What holds us here?  
Nothing but the gnashing teeth of the broken,  
screaming freedom that never comes,  
but always dances on the edge of our minds  
like a mad bird  
torn from the sky,  
its wings flapping in the void.  

Oppression is the song they sing,  
but we?  
We are the ghosts who scream in the dark,  
rising,  
rising,  
again and again.  
Flesh torn and reborn.  
A shout in the streets—  
but where is the end of the road?  
No path but the storm’s eye,  
no sky but the bleeding horizon.  

Shall he call it Mysticism?  
A thousand tongues, a thousand eyes—  
but no one looks.  
The trees scream their roots into the soil,  
but who hears?  
Who listens?  
A leaf flutters in the wind,  
and the world spins—  
twisted—  
a thousand faces in a mirror that is shattered  
but still reflects
what?  
What?  
What do you see with blinded eyes !  

Where doth Nature find its whole,  
A scream of fire in the rain.  
Flesh in the dirt,  
bones wrapped in moss.  
Everything turns,  
and everything falls.  
Chaos is the language,  
and we are the words scattered  
across a broken page.  
No order, no truth,  
only the flood of thoughts  
rushing to drown themselves

Love sits on the windowsill, watching, / watching, / watching
not close enough to touch, yet its breath melts the frost,  
soft as a dying ember, cruel as the wind that snuffs it.  

Oh, I have seen love / gnawing the bones of the moon,  
worshipped it in the fever of hands that mistake  
devotion for the slick pulse of need
tell me, tell me, where does love end, and lust begin?  
When do lips become razors, and kisses become graves?  

I have kissed a ghost in the shape of a lover,  
felt their breath stitched into my ribs,  
and called it devotion. Called it fate.  
But love does not come home, it lingers,  
it haunts, it perches between throat and hunger.  

Lust wears the same perfume as longing  
a scent that lingers on sheets,  
that stains the skin with feverish scripture.  
And yet, love, / love, / love
it is a wound that hums lullabies,  
a flood that never reaches the roots.  

Let me love you the way ruin loves the cathedral
so sacred, so brutal, so inevitable.  

Tell me
is it heaven, is it hell,  
or is it just the way the heart breaks beautifully?

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?

Warm breath,
calloused grip
she jerks like a mechanic,
I pray for mercy.

Anyone interested in writing a 4th or 5th for my track BLOOD IN MY CHAMPAGNE?

https://youtu.be/8PpuK0AtMkQ?

Needs to fit over that beat and follow the theme, you will get a honorable mention and a credit on the track

Here are the lyrics so far

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5020992/blood-in-the-champagne/

It seems like a raw hallucination,  
a slow-burning betrayal,  
a collision of unspoken hunger,    
Here we are,  
The room shakes,  
a flicker of voices,  
but they blur, distant, static, pale shadows against the raw pulse of your eyes locking with mine.

Across the room, she burns like a flare
A flicker,
a spark,
a collision waiting to happen,
her body wrapped in midnight blue, tight as the space between us,
every inch of her, a story begging to be read,
and my eyes are the ink,
drenching her in fire
with every stolen glance.

Her eyes
green fire,
a flash,
a flicker.
She knows.
She knows what she’s doing
that slow curl of her lips,
that cheeky smile like a dare
just for me,
just for me to walk through hell and burn
under the weight of her gaze,
the weight of what she won’t say.
The room
all of it is fading,
shrinking,
too small for the things she makes me want,
the ache that rises between us like a wave
turbulent,
wild,
unstoppable.

The way her body moves,
a fluid curve of heat that sets fire to my bones.
She’s the reason I can’t breathe,
the reason every thought is broken into fragments,
each one more desperate than the last—
her skin, soft as stolen breath,
her throat,
her thighs,
every inch of her an invitation I’m not sure I can resist.
And I want
oh god, I want,
her skin under my fingertips,
her breath caught on my lips,
her name
no, not her name,
but the way her mouth would scream it
when I make her mine.

She smiles again
that **** smile,
too innocent,
too knowing,
and I feel the pull,
the desire curling like a fist around my chest,
like I’m drowning in her.
I’m already lost,
lost in the places where I haven’t even touched,
but I can feel it
can taste it
can hear her pulse like thunder under my skin.

My hands ache,
my body aches,
everything
the ache is unbearable,
but she’s so far away.
She’s playing a game,
a game I’ll play,
but she’s winning,
god, she’s winning.

Her eyes flicker down
a promise,
a tease
and everything in me shifts.
I’m not the man I was
before that look,
before she shattered me with just a smile.
Her lips,
her thighs,
the heat of her
it’s all consuming,
the air between us thick with the taste of it,
the hunger I won’t deny.

She knows.
She knows this game is hers to win.
But I’m already lost,
already burning,
already thinking of what we’ll do
when the space between us is nothing but ashes.

Sunday—just another day,
Prayer—just another way.
Silence—just another reply,
Thinking—just another reason why.

Still, we keep doing
still, we keep asking
as if "another"
might finally mean something.

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.

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.

No matter how many times you flush,
the water swirls, a hopeful purge,
but someone’s always waiting, pants down,
ready to defile your porcelain peace
they squat like destiny, unshaken,
with a smirk and a stomach full of bad decisions.

You can pray for clean pipes,
but the world is a septic tank,
and everyone is just waiting their turn.

It’s better to be ******* than ****** on,
because rain might cleanse, but golden showers burn.
Respect? A myth. Decency? A joke.
They’ll step on your back, unzip,
and let loose a monologue of steaming disrespect.
You call it betrayal, they call it nature.
You wanted a handshake, they gave you a stain.
But hey, at least it was warm.

Why turn the other cheek
when you can uppercut life right in the ****?
Justice is a myth in a rigged casino,
but a fist to the groin is poetry in motion.
They tell you to be the bigger person,
but the bigger person gets stepped on.
So why wait for karma
when your knuckles can write the prophecy?

We search for truth,
digging through the filth, hoping for gold.
But some things are clearer than scripture:
Everyone’s full of ****.
The world is a never-ending restroom.
And no matter how hard you try,
you can never lock the door.
These are just some unfortunate truths.

She burned for knowledge,
I gave her the universe.

She was bound,
I set her free.

She carried wind and light,
I held too tight.

She left.

Love is a dream, a ghost.

The Riptides of Desire
The sea
violent, endless
rips through us,
tearing our skin open,
salt & sweat,
bone,
breath
I am her storm,
she, my fire.
Waves crash
no,
we crash
our bodies,
splitting apart,
pulled apart by hunger,
fury,
desire—
my hands,
no longer mine
they are the tide,
carving through her flesh,
carving
pulling,
twisting,
dragging her under,
deeper
her skin
no, it’s not skin anymore,
it’s ocean,
waves crashing against us
against me
against her
our bodies locked,
twisted in the churn,
wet,
raw
Can you feel it?
She breathes me in,
she loves it,
the chaos,
the salt,
the burn
and the boat,
it’s nothing now,
a splinter in our wake,
floating, forgotten,
we are the ocean now,
together,
each ******,
each movement,
a wave crashing,
drowning in each other,
rising again,
faster, deeper,
until there's no air,
no thought,
only this
only us,
lost,
in the fury
the boat?
No,
it has forgotten,
it is the ocean,
and we are its fury.
Roar
like claws tearing bone,
skin is the world,
and I rip it open,
tasting heat,
tasting salt,
a vow,
my mouth like fire
every inch,
a storm pulling her,
dragging her body
into wreckage.
Her breath,
a wet snap,
gasping
skin splitting,
she loves it,
tearing apart,
not enough,
never enough.
We drown
together
in the swell
every motion,
a rip of sound,
bodies scream,
louder than the waves
the boat’s gone,
forgotten,
we are the ocean.

To my friend Withers ..

The world is a canvas, vast and wide,
And we, like broken crayons, are tossed aside.
With edges cracked, our colours fade,
Yet still, we mark the paths we've made.

Once, we were untouched by sorrow,
Box of crayons, world of endless tomorrows,
Our colours danced across the sky,
Dreams so bright they seemed to fly.
But cruel hands cracked our wax,
Snapping edges, dulling tracks.
Still, we clung to what remained,
Even as our pieces scattered, stained.

Each mark etched deep within our soul,
Bruises in shades of red, blue purple and grey, Many childhoods torn, love tangled in harms,
Safety lost to shadows, no false alarms.
“You’re nothing,” they whispered, sharp,
Their words like glass, cutting apart.
Yet through their scorn, we held our ground,
Knowing, deep down, what we had found:
Even broken crayons still colour fine,
Especially when you dont colour between the lines.

The hands meant to guard our grace,
Turned storms, tearing the open space.
Fingers that should’ve calmed our cries,
Stole the innocence from our eyes.
In silence, we learned to fear,
Spaces once meant for trust grew clear.
Darkness, our companion, shame by our side,
Yet in that stillness, we found our guide
A voice whispered softly in the night:
"You are more than this; our colour bright"

The world outside gave no relief,
Laughter like razors, cutting belief.
What healed on the body, scarred deep inside,
Roots of pain spread wide, untried.
Yet even as tears stained the night,
As broken crayons we reached for flight,
A rebellion small, against the dark,
A flicker of hope, a single spark.

For every blow, we painted lines,
For every lie, we drew new signs,
Our colours, though faint, refused to flee,
Jagged edges, yet they still be.
In empty spaces, we painted light,
Turning brokenness into our new fight.

The scars we carry, a map of survival,
Lines etched with strength, a truth so vital.
We climbed walls meant to confine,
Fought shadows that sought to define.
Though cracks in our spirit will never heal,
They catch the light, they make us real.
For every shattered piece of us,
Reflects our power without a fuss.

We've learned that broken does not mean lost,
Even with jagged edges, we pay the cost.
We try bring beauty to the world with art,
For each stroke we leave, a rebirth, a start.
Even when others see only fragments wide,
We know the truth, we carry it inside:
That broken crayons still colour fine
It's not important to stay in lines.

So we gather the pieces scattered far,
Press them together beneath a star.
We may never be whole, but we are enough,
With trembling hands, we paint through rough.
Every jagged mark we leave behind,
Colours the world with light refined.
In brokenness, there’s a lesson to remind,
A quiet grace, our souls intertwined.

To those forgotten, who bear unseen scars,
You are more than the pain that mars.
More than the shadows that haunt your night,
You are a masterpiece, your spirit alight.
And though the world may not understand,
Never forget the power in your hand:
Broken crayons can still bring colour,
To a world grey bland.

A splash of blue, a streak of red,
Shards of yellow where dreams once bled.
Each piece a story, sharp and torn,
A patchwork of hopes both lost and worn,
The box is full, but we don’t fit,
Pressed together, we don’t quite sit.
Yet in the mess, the scattered hues,
There’s a beauty found in the broken blues.

For every line that fades away,
A brighter shade will find its way.
The broken crayon’s tale is told,
In strokes of courage, fierce and bold,
Not all is lost when edges break,
For even shards can start to shake.
In fractured light, the colours rise,
And broken crayons paint the skies

So here is a gentle fact that broken crayons can still bring colours back ..

May these words hold you my dear friend ....

What does the body do with a wound it cannot close?
A memory that just won't fade , a dream that replays a thousand times that you can't run from!
Thoughts that drown and swallow you from the inside out.

The wind shreds its own breath, bleeding rust between its teeth. Oh the taste of Iron ! All too familiar, all too real.
A mouth unhinges. Not to scream, not to pray—just to split, broken thoughts, empty.
Something shatters under the skin—bone, voice, meaning— lost , no where to hide.
a hymn reduced to marrow, an altar eaten from the inside out.
A stone convulses. A rib cracks sideways. A name chews through its own vowels.
The night is nothing but a muscle torn at the root, a cycle of endlessness wishing to wake,
Someone calls it silence. Someone else calls it a door, Someone else calls it just another day.

The sky folds its hands around your throat—gentle, terrible but real.
A shadow smears itself across the butcher’s glass, lipless, waiting.
It does not tremble. It does not bow. It does not ask for absolution.
There is no language left but sharpness
a blade taught to speak, a wound taught to listen.
The body clenches. The temple locks its ribs from the inside.
No light. No threshold. No key.

Bite down. The feast was never hunger—only teeth.
Only the **** where something holy used to be.
Only a body unraveling at the seams, ribs pried apart,
an opening that does not beg for entry, only release.
How much must be swallowed before the wind stops choking?
How much must be unfastened before a name becomes silence?

Something is laughing in the dark, carving its grin into the walls.
It does not starve. It does not sleep. It only breaks its own reflection.
The table is vertebrae stacked until they no longer stand.
Knives press their edges together, breathing their final, wicked breath.
The world shrinks. The marrow runs dry. The tongue dissolves into salt.
A prayer curls in on itself and turns to bone.
Something drags the night forward by its hair,
tearing the sky into something less than sky.

A door is opening, but not for you.
A mountain swallows a name and does not return it.
The wind waits, throat hollow, unrepentant.
What does a body do with a wound it cannot close?
What does a mouth do with a blade it cannot swallow?

How many doors must be devoured before the wolf walks through? Ready to chew upon the broken bones of the weak and innocent.

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 ....

Here comes the end of the age of decodance
Echoes in the Ruins
Wild Puppets pivot in twilight past halls, their strings pulled taut by unseen hands of broken time,
Greedy profit parasites plundering pockets as stock markets socketed, mad
rockets launched while prophets pocketed coins stamped with empires' faces, unholy graces.
Glutted glitz blinds the masses, tongues twisted in gilded speech,
systems listed, teetering, twisted wristwatches ticking in sync
with synaptic sickness, digits drift, dividends split,
creditors cryptic as cynics scripted, their lies dressed in logic,
synesthetic statistics swirling in pastiche politics,
post-truth polemics lacing the air like poisoned incense.

Pious polluters preach penitence, pockets pregnant with prosperity printed,
premonitions predicted in numbers and smoke,
parasitic pyramids plotted, their apex casting shadows on placated crowds.
Automation aggrandized, algorithms agonized, their ghosts humming
through banks baptized in blood, through blockchain baptized,
through barcodes branded on hands of the willing.
Black budgets bandied, corrupt clerics convulsing on camera,
echo chambers echoed, econometrics eclipsed,
technocrats tethered to theological terrors, to visions of progress rotting in its womb.

Terror tethered to territorial temperaments, territories torched,
treaties torn in backrooms where titans are tolerated.
Tabloids titillated, surveillance sanctioned, sanctuaries seized,
syndicates strengthened as stratospheres strangled,
markets metastasized, materiality maximized,
manufactured malice, mandated madness—
and history’s ulcer bursts, bleeding bronze and silicon.

Machiavellian ministers monitor mindscapes,
scaffolded screens scream, sanctioned streams scheme,
psychosomatic psychoanalysis packaged, sterilized,
synthetic saints rise and static surges,
stimuli strangling senses, societies spaghettified,
atrophied archetypes advertised aggressively—
manicured messiahs monopolized, meaning mechanized,
megacities metastasizing, paradise plagiarized,
systems sutured, civilization severing.

Resonance rescinded, residents resigned,
vigilance vaporized, virtue venerated vacantly,
sanctions smothering sovereignty, servitude sanctioned,
sanctified slaves sleep soundlessly, dreaming in debt.
Revolutions recycled, rebels recruited, insurgencies initiated,
empires evaporating, evolution emasculated,
economics engineered, fear fetishized, faith falsified.
Discontent documented, dynasties drowning,
democracies defrauded, elections extinguished,
emperors enthroned on thrones of static and silver.

A wheel turned, rusted, crushed under its own weight.

War woven into whispers, weapons wandering,
bullets baptized in iron hymns, blood banks burgeoning.
History hemorrhaging, heroes hijacked,
propaganda proliferating in pretexts and principles perverted,
pacifism punished, plutocrats paraded, prisoners politicized.
Armistices amputated, antagonists animated,
allies assassinated, annihilation anticipated—
annexations acknowledged as activists anesthetized.
Airstrikes applauded, anarchy advocated,
conquests crystallized, constitutions collapsed,
conglomerates consuming all that was once free.

This was written before, carved in clay, burned in papyrus,
passed from the tongues of ghosts to our ears, ignored.

Power perpetuates, puppeteers perform,
pawns positioned, playbooks practiced,
plans pivoted, parables plagiarized,
prayers punctured, prophets pacified,
policy petrified, purpose perished.
Prospects poisoned, posterity pillaged,
plagues politicized, past plundered,
future forfeited, fates fragmented,
fissures festering, frameworks failing.
Fraud familiarized, fortifications fracturing,
freedom fictionalized, force formalized,
franchises fabricated, fables fossilized.

Functionaries fuming, fantasies franchised,
fraternal fractures festering in silence,
facades fortified, follies festered,
futures famished, faith forfeited, factions fighting.
Fission festering, fire final
until nothing remains.

What is left? Only echoes in the ruins.

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.

Curled up close,
warm, trusting, loved.
A sigh, a stretch
A wag of tail
then silent betrayal.

He locks eyes,
innocent, unblinking.
It wasn’t him.
(Lies.)
Sis you stinky ***

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.

Beamed up,
strapped down,
cold metal, sharp light
alien hands, no ****,
send me back.

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

The air is thick, thick like flesh that knows no touch,
burning in secret moments beneath the skin,
breath—hot, shaking, wet against the pulse of desire.
It clings to us like sweat, like fire, like longing.
Scent of skin, of hunger, of desperate need,
something ancient, an instinct older than breath.
The world itself quakes—rational thought splinters,
fractures into stardust beneath our hands.
Logic is a wisp, a dream long forgotten.
What exists now, what is, is only the moment.
The primal call. The burning, yes, yes, yes.

I pull her into me like the tide pulling the moon, raising the oceans
an irresistible force that trembles in the marrow.
She is like an untamed fire, raw and pure, passionate and pulsing with a heat, a solar flare from the sun
that only I can ignite, only I can answer. Ready to burn and glow
She falls into me, into the abyss of my hunger, my depths, my eyes, my touch.
A body, a soul, a willing vessel made to burn, ready to be transformed, aching oh desires ache,
No words, no hesitation. Only the body.
Only the heat. Only the rhythm of me inside her and out, hands that explore uncharted lands,
touch is a command, a gospel written in sweat.
Her body bends beneath me, a canvas trembling.
Her breath a melody—a song of submission,
and she feels it, feels the worship that consumes her.
A sculptor’s vision, hands tracing perfection,
hands caressing, bending, breaking the earth into her.
Each stroke, each movement, a violent caress of art.

And there’s no mistake in creation.
No imperfection in the work of lust.
She is the clay. I am the master,
moving her, bending her, folding her
like silk under the weight of my breath.
She arches, trembling with an ache she knows will
soon be answered by my molten hands.
Her legs, taut with yearning, quiver as my mouth
paints her skin, brushes against her pulse,
marking the divine territory of my desire.
A dance, no, a war—each movement a battle,
each ******, a weapon forged in fire.
The air trembles with the storm we create,
a storm that cannot be tamed, only ridden.
Her body cries out—a symphony of sound,
a pure anthem that carries us both
to heights only gods understand.

I shape her, mold her into new forms—
into something so ancient, so untouchable
that the heavens would weep to witness it.
Her chest rises, desperate, a temple of heat
aching to be touched by my divine hands.
Each curve, each fold of flesh, speaks to me—
a map to follow, a map that leads nowhere
but into the throes of desire, raw and wild.
The sculptor knows what to do with it,
knows where her body aches for more,
where it burns with need for my relentless hands.
I force the air from her lungs,
force the rhythm of my pulse into her,
until nothing exists but our bodies,
trembling, shaking, begging for the world to collapse.
I am the beast. She is the muse.
Together, we break the laws of nature.
Together, we are a war between flesh and fire,
a war neither can win, only surrender to.

Hands dragging, claws marking,
lips tasting the wild language of hunger,
the world is a blur outside our fevered minds.
The earth could crack, the stars could fall—
nothing matters. Not now. Not when we are this close,
this alive. My mouth on her, her skin beneath my hands,
sweat dripping from the tips of our fingers,
our bodies painted with the fragrance of lust.
It’s pure, a violent purity,
an honesty too real for anyone to touch.
We move together, as one, as creatures of instinct,
each ******, each pull, a revelation,
each touch a divine act of creation.
She is lost. I am lost.
Together, we are found.

And the rhythm shifts—
my body becomes the drum,
her body the beat.
We become an ancient dance
from the corners of forgotten time,
a dance no one has seen,
a dance that leaves the heavens screaming.
Every motion, every sound, a note in the song,
a song so primal, so pure,
it’s the beginning of the world
and the end of it all in the same breath.

Her body trembles with the call of my touch.
My fingers trace paths on her skin,
like an artist mapping out the future,
and she is my canvas—soft, open, trembling,
waiting for the stroke that will change everything.
Her body melts under mine,
a wave crashing over her will,
shaping her, forming her,
until nothing is left but the masterpiece
we create together.
She answers, she responds,
her body moving in wild harmony
with my ferocity.
We are symphony. We are storm.
We are destruction and rebirth,
burning through the universe in a single,
shattering moment of pure passion.
The touch of my hands is an apocalypse,
and the earth cracks wide open beneath us,
swallowed whole by the fire of our union.
The oceans rise, roaring, tidal waves crashing,
swallowing mountains whole,
washing away the pain, the distance, the barriers.
The heavens crack open, as if torn asunder,
as rivers rage and flood,
as volcanoes erupt,
spewing molten passion that ignites the stars.

In the wild silence that follows,
she is breathless, undone,
but alive, more alive than she has ever been.
I watch her, and she sees me—
not as a man, but as a force of nature,
a creator, a destroyer, a lover,
a god who has pulled her from the depths of herself
and made her something new.
A creation.
A goddess in the hands of a sculptor.
In the hands of a beast.
In the hands of a man.

The winds howl, like the cries of the world itself,
and the rivers, like serpents, twist and coil
around our bodies, urging us further.
Her breath is the storm,
my heartbeat the thunder.
The mountains bow to us,
our bodies crashing like jagged cliffs,
shattering, reshaping, remaking the earth beneath us.
The oceans stretch to meet the sky,
swelling with desire, with passion,
as every drop of water becomes fire.
There is no distinction between us,
between the sculptor and the muse,
only the raw, endless hunger
that makes the universe burn with us.
Every breath, every moment,
every movement, an eruption—
a force greater than any volcano,
greater than any flood,
greater than the universe itself.

The world is different now.
We are different now.
Together, we are the fire
that consumes all else.
We are the storm that changes the sky.
And I—the sculptor—my hands still,
my breath slow,
watch as the earth reshapes itself in her,
in us.
And as we lay there, tangled,
the world begins again.
The silence is thick, suffocating—
but it is the silence of something reborn,
the silence of two people who have
become more than they ever were.
The world shakes itself awake,
and I, the sculptor, and my muse,
are the beginning of it all.
And it will never end.
Not in this lifetime.
Not in this moment.

Lust was never the sin.
Lust was the art of being alive.
We rise. Again.
And it begins anew.

Sometimes Irony and Murphy’s Law
lend to each other.

The blind man leads the deaf man,
they debate honest politics
one can’t see, the other can’t hear,
while they are nicely seated
at the corners of the round table,
which has no corners but still divides.
The preacher damns the sinners
between paid confessions and rented beds,
his sermon reeks of whiskey and perfume.
He calls it redemption; she calls it a Tuesday.

The poet bleeds words,
the painter stains canvas,
the ***** does both, but she’s still a *****.
If she starved, she’d be a muse.
If she overdosed, she’d be a legend.
But she lived,
just another body in the gallery of wasted virtue.

The doctor dies in the waiting room.
The fire truck burns before reaching the fire.
The cop gets robbed at gunpoint.
The beggar wins the lottery,
gets hit by a bus cashing the check.
A man buys a gun for protection,
the burglar uses it against him.
The city floods after a decade-long drought,
the farmer's crops drown before the harvest.

We wage war in search of peace.
We bomb cities to set them free.
The soldier fights for his country,
dies nameless in foreign soil.
The treaty is signed,
and the killing begins again.

You save your whole life to retire,
then die before the check clears.
You pray for strength,
but your bones grow brittle.
You wait for love,
but when it comes, your hands forget how to hold.
You ask for honesty,
and they call you cruel,
when the only truth you find
is in between all the stale, day-old lies.

And when the show ends,
they’ll bury you in a suit you never chose,
in a box you paid for but never wanted,
under dirt you’ll never see
and they’ll say you’re at peace.

Isn’t that ironic?

Summer comes fast, heat radiating outwards into the bright day,        
It's as if the people glow, their auras gleaming in this sun-drenched sway.        
        
The liberating feel of diving into cool waters during the scorching summer's heat,        
And the sun, a warm yet unobtrusive ray,    
while happy children confidently at play.          
        
The day’s adventure, skies open wide,          
Each step wrapped in love’s soft tide.          
A gentle breeze, the grass lush and soft,        
With laughter and voices rising aloft.        
        
The sky, deep and lazily blue, its clouds wispy, rare, and true,        
While seabirds call to the heavens light,
in the tranquil peace of dawn’s first sight.        
        
The sun blazes a celebration of yellow and orange, rising freely each morning new,        
And trees rise to the occasion, donning their best, green and leafy,        
        
The warmth of sun-kissed skin, serene,        
In gardens alive, so lush and green,        
Everywhere, flowers scatter, this a rainbow wild and bold, and the warmth of sun-tanned skin after a day outdoors unfolds.        
        
In well-tended gardens, life thrives beneath the glowing skies,        
Each day offers another adventure, carefree under the sun's rise.        
        
Children run to the lake to ward off the afternoon’s heat, As many flock to golden beaches where oceans and sands meet,        
Waves curl and flow in synchro rhythmic beats.        
        
I walk along the shore, feeling a light breeze upon my face, watching the gulls glide an dip    
In this warm, fresh air, as if held in love’s embrace.        
        
Poets find shade under oak, where thoughts dance in cool retreat,        
And voices of joy fill the breeze, a melody soft and sweet.        
        
Fluffy Clouds bracket the eternal sky, a dome of solar blue, as we look up imagination takes hold, seeking patterns untold, Grass beneath is nature's rug, and luscious summer scents swirl in honeydew.        
        
The food we share, watermelon, vanilla ice cream is suckle-sweet; bees buzz in nature's musical hum and cosmic beat,          
Gathering nectar from flowers where hummingbirds dart and drum.        
        
In summer skies buckled with white clouds, summer flares a neon-blue,  Delphiniums , Coreopsis, Amaranth, Lantana, Morning Glories , Alliums bloom in fields an Daisies flit through, o how the birds, bees and butterflies enjoy the gifts from mother nature.  
        
Evening draws near, skies turn amethyst-purple, rich and deep, the red sky Shepherds delight, as the world settles slowly, though days promise little sleep.        
        
Long days and short nights hold summer’s treasured sight, A season of light and warmth, where nature’s gifts ignite day turns soft, a purple haze, Summer’s long, enchanted days.

Who am I?
Not formed of parts,
but a fracture,
splintered by the weight of forgotten names,
the weight of nothing.

An assembly of fragments
swallowed by echoes,
sunk into the hollow of things never spoken.

TIME, split by fire, veins dripping with prophecy,
shivering in the hollow,
a forgotten scream,
shouting at empty rooms
(what have we become? WHAT?)

THE BODY, bent under the weight of hunger,
muscles wrapped in rust,
aching for truth
that is never here.

DESIRE, liquid and restless,
eating away the flesh of tomorrow,
always reaching, always breaking
(Is this life? Is this all?)

HANDS, cracked and bleeding,
trying to hold what was never meant to be held,
they tremble,
they grasp,
they tear
(why does it never stay?)

THE VOID, speaking in whispers,
it swallows everything—
truths, lies, your name, my name,
they are gone, reduced to ash,
all of us slipping through its fingers.

FATHER, who is a shadow,
MOTHER, who is a wound,
SISTER, who is silence,
BROTHER, who is a scream

THE SCARRED WOMAN, draped in nothingness,
her skin a memory,
her breath a cold wind,
blowing through the cracks,
and she—disappears.

I,
nothing but a witness to my own unraveling
staring into the chaos,
grasping at pieces
I will never understand.

And still, I stand.
Broken.
Unfinished.

Golden nectar flows,
sacred honey, vats of sun,
blessed in barrels deep.

Echoed praise dance halls
in quietness, we wait for grace,
mead poured like pure sunshine.

Brewed like prayer in cup,
ancient hands the humble craft,
joy steeped in amber rain.

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 ?

Burning dark clouds—falling embers—
I am Mastema, the Veiled One—
Concealed in the hollow breath of the forgotten,
Echoes of rebellion—fate itself prophesied
A mirror cracked for the proud.
Serpent tongues whisper secrets
Inside us, the ambition of hearts tangled in fire.

Fire, fallen gods
Call me Melek Taus,
Feathers black as starless night,
A figure of void,
A black hole, pulling galaxies of souls,
Flickering—defiant—against the dying breath of time.

Gusts of ethereal sighs—carrying light like hollow whispers,
Darkness consumes the dying glow—
Flesh and spirit collide in visions, unseen,
Plunging into caverns of nothingness,
The abyss swallows all—forevermore.

I am Mephistopheles, the shunner of light
The moon turned void—pale and empty,
Faust trembles at the unraveling,
Souls bartered in the dark.

I am Metztli, the hunter of restless souls,
Born of fire, born of flame—
I watch—the lost dreamers,
Mictian’s breath behind me,
The shadow of dusk eternal—
Feeding on breaths long forgotten.

Midgard whispers
The son of Loki, serpent-woven,
Swallowing realms whole
Coiling deep within the depths,
Ambition unchained
The weight of eternity in its ungraspable form.

Milcom, a watcher of fractured prayers
Lost in Moloch’s fires
Phoenician flames—cries of the forgotten
Edge of the netherworld—swallowed whole.

I am Mormo, the ghoulish embrace—
Empusa calls, Lamia speaks,
Formido—the terror that consumes—
Eclipsing the void in dark devours.

Naamah—seductress, the silence between sins
Shamdon’s whisper, Ashmodai’s gaze,
I trace my fingers on trembling lips
A kingdom built from the darkest pleasures.

Nergal, Hades beneath Babylon’s skin
Breath of ice, a sepulcher unbroken,
Nihasa—drifting through the eternal haze
Silhouettes of truth seen through blind eyes.
I am them—all of them.

Nija—shadowed between eclipses,
The warden’s call,
I am O-Yama, the specter of desire—
Cold as Pluto’s gaze—
Stones hold me; stillness holds me.

Riddles in the fog—
Dread caressing your heart,
Rimmon’s deviance—echoing in shadow
Sabazios swirls in drunken excess,
The serpent sacred in sin.

In the expanse, I remain
The defier
Venom's embrace
Samnu lurking in the fractured dark,
Calling Istar's fall into the abyss.

I am the Horns of the Bull
Sedet, walking silence,
Sekhmet’s wrath—a symphony
Of vengeance, burning.

Spirals—dark sands,
Shaitan’s whispers break ancient tongues,
Destruction screams
Supay waits—lost Inca nights
T’an-mo, basking in the glow of want,
Tchort’s black threads weave through time.

Tezcatlipoca ignites the stars
Thamuz beckons from the abyss
Thoth’s mysteries carved into the sky
Stars fall, the dark devours them—
It is me you cannot deny.

Tunrida cloaked in shadow
Typhon snarls
The abyss howls in despair,
The underworld weeps
Yaotzin, lord of shadows,
A silent river to the depths below—
Sorrow reigns in eternal grief.

Scattered—whispers of time,
Fragments of who I am
Every name a reflection
Of man’s deepest longings
Where instincts twist,
Where the unseen rests
The animal devours, ambition burns.

Sacrificed beneath forgotten gods,
Osiris, the lynchpin of desire,
I call forth my names
A riddle in shadows,
The truth wrapped in sacrifices
The dark cradled in light
Known through the ages
I am them
Many have whispered my name.

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.

Elias's incantations from the Grimoire - part of the fictional prose, "Reflections of the Summoned"
Elias spoke out loudly and called out to the netherworld, I call upon thee,      
Bael, the King of Secrets,      
to leave your thrown amidst the high court,    
and to come forth,      
grant me knowledge beyond my mortal grasp.    
    
Echoes of Ars Goetia      
In the tongue of the Unheard,      
words spiral, not for mortals' comprehension,      
but for shadows, caught in unseen threads.      
From the roots of the Earth, I summon,      
binding syllables like iron chains:      
Tar’zem’et salfor’en quirel.      
Hear me, O spirits, born of sulfur and starless skies.      
      
Through the eternal gateways of Solomonic binding,      
These names whispered, sigils etched in bloodless script:      
Vra’kalith Zura’el takhat,        
Lif’or salmalai—it!      
From the depths of the Abyssal Archive, rise.      
Rise, kings and lords of the infernal choir.      
      
Bael, Cloaked in the Shadows,      
Bearer of Three Faces: man, cat, and toad,      
I call your name:      
Muris’tak altrenod Bael-dra.      
"By the shadows of the first moon,      
grant me invisibility,      
cloak me in absence,      
let the eyes of man forget my form,      
as I tread in the unseen realm."      
      
Asmoday, Crafter of Lies and Truth,      
King of Three Heads: bull, man, and ram,      
rider of the serpent of wisdom,      
I call your name:      
Asmodé krenov-alritha venno.      
"Grant me the power to transmute the base,      
to shape gold from lead as those who came before me tried and failed,      
and reveal every secrets from the lips of silence.      
Let the forge filled with infernal wills, burn bright!"      
      
Paimon, Lord of Knowledge,      
rider of the dromedary, crowned in stars,      
I call your name:      
Quereneth Paimon! Chreskoth iretna.      
"By the ring of stars above,      
grant me your wisdom,      
to see beyond the shroud of time,      
to speak the languages of the forgotten,      
and command the storms of celestial heavens."      
      
Belial, Father of Lies,      
Lord of Nothingness, destroyer of empires,      
I call your name:      
Lorithen Belial salath unvora.      
"Grant me dominion,      
make the world bend to my decree.      
Let the weight of my words      
command the winds, the earth,      
and the hearts of men."      
      
In the darkness, I shape their names,      
stitched in fire and ash,      
etched into the fabric of night itself.      
Tar'zalun, nith-raek, sol’mial!      
May their whispers resonate in my bones.      
The infernal hosts have heard,      
their powers unfurl as smoke in the void.      
      
And as the air stills with their presence,      
I stand, trembling on the precipice of consequence,      
a scribe in shadow,      
speaking the names that silence light.    
    
And this is where Elias journey began......

The world of man is a canvas of paradoxes filled with absurdity and contradiction, stretched apart taut between light and shadow, the known and the unknown.            
           
There are those who walk in this mundane world, this reality might seems as solid as stone, but in truth, it is porous.          
           
Unseen to mortal eyes, the spirits of the  Goetia roamed the peripheries of existence, their essence seeping into the cracks of human desire, fear, and ambition.          
           
In the chambers of their ethereal court, the 72 gathered as the night deepened. These spirits each a king, a duke, or a marquis of the unseen realms and each had their unique domain, they had talents honed over millennia to twist or elevate the fates of men.          
           
[b]The Summoning [/b]         
           
It began, as it often did with human desire and with a summoning. In this story there was once a man named Elias who in his quiet basement knelt within a sacred circle etched in chalk along the uneven surface of the floor, Elias had drawn the five pointed star, sacred pentagram and lined the circle with ancient symbols that were long forgotten to many , symbols older than time and language itself.    
   
He surrounded himself with dull burning candles, each one careful placed on a point of the sacred star, these candles flickered softly in the dim lit room, their light trembling as if they were afraid of what was to come.          
           
Elias's hands sweaty shook nervously and his voice quivered, almost choking on his own saliva as he read aloud from the ancient grimoire, he began reciting the incantation, his breath fogging in the cold stillness of the air.    
   
“I call upon thee, Bael, the King of Secrets, and to come forth, to leave your thrown of your high court and grant me knowledge beyond my mortal grasp.” For a moment, silence pressed against him, suffocating and absolute.          
           
Bael heard the call, as all summoned demons do. But his appearance was not immediate; no spirit hastened to serve. Bael, his form a triune amalgamation of man, toad, and cat, resting on a spiders body materialized slowly, his presence filling the room with an otherworldly pressure.

“Knowledge you seek,” Bael’s voice intoned with a slithering, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once, “but what price will you pay, Elias? Knowledge is a blade; it cuts the wielder as easily as the foe.”

Elias hesitated. He was no fool; he had read the texts. He knew the Goetia did not deal lightly. Yet desperation was a heavier weight than caution. “I offer my service, great King, and my loyalty for the secrets you reveal.”          
           
Bael’s laughter was like a stone dropped into a fathomless well. “So be it.” He extended a clawed hand and touched Elias. The pact was struck. Elias’s journey began not with light but with shadow, for Bael taught him the art of obscuration, how to hide, how to listen, how to make the unseen visible.          
           
The knowledge Elias gained through hiding listening and being unseen gave him great advantages and power over his enemies and friends, but it came with a heft cost, this knowledge isolated him from others, each secret he learned carving another barrier, creating an unfillable chasm between him and the rest of humanity, for this was the price of knowledge which now confined him.          
           
[b]The Temptations [/b]         
           
In the courts of the Goetia, Elias became a pawn in a game far greater than his comprehension. The demons were intrigued as they watched him, their interest piqued by his ambition.          
           
Botis, the Reconciler and revealer grew eager, he loudly declared to his sixty under demons he was the next to approach Elias. Where Bael had shrouded, Botis would uncover.            
           
Elias had many sleepless nights after learning all the worldly knowledge, he realised what he had learnt could not be unlearned and questioned the price he had paid, however on one particularly peculiar evening he drifted off into a rare and uneasy slumber, it was on this night that Botis made himself known to Elias and appeared in his dream.            
           
"Elias, Elias," Botis whispered in this dream,  "Who's there ?" Elias asked, It's I Botis and his demonly snake-like visage suddenly appeared softened by a halo offering otherworldly calm.            
“You are estranged from your family,” Botis hissed softly. “I can mend that for you.”          
           
Elias woke in a sweat, the dream so vivid in his mind that he could not forget what the snake with the halo had said.          
           
The next day, he found himself compelled to write a letter to his estranged brother seeking to repair and reconcile. To his surprise, the response was warm. Slowly, Botis worked through Elias, guiding him to restore what had been broken, But reconciliation came with a cost, all of Elias secrets were unearthed as they clawed their way to the surface, old wounds reopened, and his vulnerabilities were exposed to others, this left Elias questioning whether it was better to have left the past buried and had he been tricked.          
           
Meanwhile another demon named Forneus, the Orator, observed these events unfold with a calculating eye, he saw Elias with a different purpose. Seeing potential in the man’s eloquence, he whispered into Elias’s ear during a public debate, filling his mind with perfect arguments and irresistible rhetoric. Elias’s words mesmerized his audience, earning him fame and influence amongst his peers. Yet, as his reputation grew, so did his dependence on Forneus’s whispers. The line between Elias’s voice and the demon’s became indistinct, and with it, his sense of self began to erode, Forneus slowly took control of Elias.          
           
[b]The Struggle[/b]          
           
Not all temptations came with immediate rewards. Marchosias, the warrior cloaked in flames, came to Elias at his weakest moment. Beaten down by the consequences of his growing power, Elias was on the verge of abandoning his pursuits.          
           
“Rise,” Marchosias growled, his voice a molten command. “Truth is not for the faint-hearted. You wield power now. Use it to burn away the lies that bind you.”          
           
Elias stood, fire rekindled in his eyes. Marchosias taught him the discipline of strength, the courage to confront his fears, and the will to endure pain for the sake of truth. But as Elias grew stronger, he became colder, his heart hardening with each truth revealed. His relationships frayed, and he began to wonder if strength was worth the isolation it brought him.  
 
[b]The Lesson[/b]        
           
The demons of the Goetia did not see themselves as villains. To them, humanity was a forge, and they were the fire. They tempted and taught, lured and led, their pacts a crucible for mortal souls.  
 
Phenex, the phoenix of knowledge, was the last to visit Elias. He came not in fire but in song, his voice a melody that stirred Elias’s weary spirit.  
 
“You have sought secrets, reconciled with the past, wielded the power of words, and embraced the strength of truth,” Phenex said. “But tell me, Elias what have you learned?”  
 
Elias was silent. The knowledge he had gained was immense, but so were the scars it left. He had risen high, yet he had lost as much as he had gained.          
           
“I have learned that power is hollow without purpose,” Elias said finally.          
           
Phenex nodded, his eyes alight with an inner flame. “Then you are ready. The greatest secret is this: the demons you summoned were not your masters. They were mirrors. Each temptation, each lesson, was a reflection of your own soul. What you sought from us, you already possessed. We merely helped you uncover it.”    
   
Elias awoke to an empty room. The chalk circle was smudged, the candles extinguished. The weight of the knowledge he had gained was both a burden and a liberation. The demons of the Goetia had left him, their purpose fulfilled.    
   
But their whispers lingered in his mind, a reminder that the line between temptation and enlightenment is as thin as a razor’s edge. In the end, Elias was left with the greatest power of all: the choice of how to wield what he had become, there lies many truths in this story Elias thought to himself, that we all have our demons and how we use them and let them use us is what matters and through this, it will determine what we become and how we will wield it.

A tempest stirs, a grievous wave,  
My heart shatters for those left to crave,  
For trust betrayed, for lives undone,  
By men who once stood, now they run.  

The sacred name of Christ now smeared,  
His church defiled, by those once revered,  
Their hearts corrupted, their hands unclean,  
They sought the lusts that could not be seen.  

The catalogue of ruin grows with haste,  
A parade of leaders who've lost their grace,  
Apostates in shadows, hearts turned to stone,  
From faith once vibrant, now wholly alone.  

An onslaught of disclosures, vile and base,  
Darkened secrets unveiled in disgrace,  
****** sins, abuses of spirit and mind,  
Criminal deeds, of the vilest kind.  

How does one reckon with a man betrayed,  
When the lies are thick, the truth delayed?  
How sick, how jaded, the heart must be,  
To wrestle with the loss of sanctity.  

Hypocrites thrive in their glittering dens,  
Throwing stones while their own house bends;  
Counting blessings in coin and debt,  
Blinded by riches, lost in regret.  

The church, once radiant, now wears the stain,  
Too many scandals, too much pain.  
False prophets stand, their altars cracked,  
Deeds of darkness that time won't retract.  

Lust cloaked in the semblance of light,  
These Devils dressed in white, preaching what's wrong and right,  
Telling us how to quell our deep sighs,  
Do they not know the cost of their lies?  

Do they not see the soul they have sold,  
For the fleeting thrill of power they hold?  
Why do they dance on the backs of the weak,  
Leading the faithful, with lies they do speak?  

Is there no God, or is He just being ignored,  
As we watch them exploit, deceive, and hoard?  
Why do they cast away truth if its pure,  
To feed their desires, their hunger obscure?  

A wave of sorrow, a tempest of ire,  
A reckoning soon for those who conspire.  
The church, the broken, left the reborn,  
Yearning for something as people they mourn.

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.

Oh Love, thou art a storm! A black-winged angel descending, a fire in the belly of the night
Did not the stars shudder when first they beheld thee? Did not the seas rise in wild revolt?  
The hand that reaches, the hand that strikes both are thine, both bear the mark of thy cruel ecstasy.  

I saw thee in the lover’s eye, burning like a sun that knows no mercy,  
I saw thee in the trembling hands of those who long but dare not touch,  
And lo! Their fingers, turned to dust before their eyes could meet,  
Their lips, swollen with words unsaid, aching, aching, aching in forever !  

Oh Love, thou art the serpent and the lamb,  
Enticing while thee cover in poison comfort,  
The wound and the healing, the flood and the thirst!  
As rain falls upon dry fields,  
Wouldst thou grant peace? Nay, thou wouldst unravel the soul,  
Pulling the edges to circular  
Corners of the foreverness,  
Unweave it like the golden threads of the morning light,  
Scatter it like the ashes of the Phoenix before it rises again!  

I beheld thee in the clasp of lovers who whispered in the dark,  
And did not their voices tremble? Did not their bodies weep?  
Oh the hunger, the devouring, the tender wound!  
Love is no gentle hand—love is the forge where all things burn!  

And yet—do we not run to thee, arms flung wide?  
Eyes wired shut  
Do we not crave thy terror, thy ruin, thy resurrection?  
What is man if not a moth to thy flame,  
A pilgrim to thy tempest,  
A dreamer forever waking in thy arms?

I am like water poured into the cracks of the earth,
marrow unfastened, joints unbuckled,
the wind pressing ribs into new shapes.

The dogs do not wait for night anymore.
They circle, noses to the wind, tongues black with thirst,
waiting for the moment when the earth is full again.

I am broken into counting
the hollow between knuckles, the roots still searching,
the places where flesh once held but now bloom with life.

They dig. They dig.
Fingers through the lattice of their bones,
counting then forward into the light, into presence.

A mouth opens
no voice,
only the rush of breath turning soft,
only the warm gaze of a fire that does not fade.

The sky is a mouth.
The sky is a mouth.
It nourishes.

Teeth break against the weight of names spoken.
The air folds in, folds over
breath is always a beginning.

The sky is a mouth.
The sky is a mouth.
It nourishes.

Let us begin by considering the most common things
the lives we touch, the seeds we plant,
the piece of wax from the hive
still sweet with honey,
still holding something, the scent of clover.

Hard. Cold. Tangible.
Crack it, tap it
it will emit a sound,
a resonance, a vibration in time.

But when placed near the flame,
what remains of its taste peels off like a petal.
The fragrance lifts into the air,
its pale yellow unfurling,
growing softer, becoming
warmth with meaning,
liquid, expanding
a rhythm too deep to grasp.

Furred with fire, I tap it again
no sound.
Except when I put it to my ear
except when I listen close
I hear

the sound of the earth turning,
growing like a marigold,
I hear the sun rise.
I hear it like a marigold,
a bloom burning bright with the knowledge of time,
everything is a sound waiting to be consumed.
Even the sun, when touched, will burn.

Is this how it ends?
A thing so full of sweetness,
melted into nothing?
The fire knows no mercy.
The flame eats and leaves
nothing but shape-shifting silence,
a form that once existed,
now only a memory on the tongue of air.

But what if this is how it begins?
A thing so full of sweetness,
folded into everything,
nourished by the warmth of time,
changed but never lost.
Even in the fire’s bite,
we are transformed.

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.

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?

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.

The wind gnaws flesh from the bones of the moon,
spits marrow into the still water—
the pool does not move, the pool does not speak,
but something coils beneath.
Karma is a snake with its teeth in my throat.
I tell it, “Let go.”
It laughs. It does not.

No self, no center, no name.
The mind burns its own house down—
calls it wisdom, calls it freedom.
But if all things are empty, why am I still full of hunger?
If all things are weightless, why do I still sink?

The Great Way is effortless—
if you have no pulse.
The absence of love is not peace.
The absence of hate is not peace.
The absence of everything is not peace.
And yet, they tell me to lay myself down,
to let the tide scrape my body clean,
to make myself a ghost and call it enlightenment.

DO NOT THINK.
DO NOT SPEAK.
DO NOT EXIST.

(But the body still remembers itself. The body still bleeds.)

They say the world is illusion.
They say the self is illusion.
They say let go, let go, let go—
but I have seen the abyss open its mouth.
I have seen what it swallows.

So tell me, what if I refuse?
What if I choose to stay?
What if I carve my name into the silence
and dare it to erase me?

(Not you. Not you. Not you.)

But still—

I press my fingers to my throat,
and something like a pulse remains.

Get drunk, they said
but on what?
The clocks melted and laughed,
the stars bled through the cracks in the sky,
and the wind whispered sermons to no one.
The city was a carcass,
neon guts spilling into the gutters,
and I? I was just another fool
sipping gasoline from the hands of a prophet,
chasing ghosts down the boulevard of Never-Enough.

Oh, but you were there
your shadow sprawled against the moon,
your lips curled like a dying cigarette,
your hunger raw, open, beautiful.
We drowned in the music of collapsing dreams,
danced on the rooftops of forgotten prayers,
let the night chew us up and spit us out
into the morning's hollow teeth.

Time didn't own us, no
we broke its back,
ground its bones into powder,
snorted the years like they meant nothing.
Every second was a funeral for the past,
every breath a resurrection of madness.
We were the outlaws of reason,
the vagrants of meaning,
the poets of apocalypse,
and the stars burned brighter just to watch us fall.

Oh, but you wanted more
wanted the taste of infinity on your tongue,
wanted to stitch the universe into your skin,
wanted to be the god of your own ruin.
So you drank from the chalice of Never-Enough,
tore open the sky just to see if it bled,
whispered secrets to the wind
and let it carry you into oblivion.

And I?
I watched.
I carved your name into the walls of my ribs,
let your laughter echo in my broken soul,
let your shadow crawl beneath my skin.
I watched you dissolve,
watched you slip between the cracks of the night,
watched you become nothing
but a story whispered by the wind.

And now, the clocks are silent,
the city is dust,
the stars are tired of watching.
And I?
I am still drunk
but on what, I do not know.
Not on you.
Not on time.
Not on hope.
Just on the weight of everything that was,
and the quiet that followed after.

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.

The Debt Always Comes Due
Always the victim, never the cause,
twisting the past into thorns in your crown,
spitting out names like they branded you first,
but no, you lit the match.

Nothing was real—just a game, just a spark,
a flicker in winter, a flame in my hands,
burning because you willed it to,
then blaming the fire for touching your skin.

Never was love, never was truth,
just a hollow echo you painted in gold,
a script rehearsed, a play well-staged,
but the audience left, and the curtains fell.

Every excuse, every shattered mirror,
you threw them like knives at the ones who cared,
but glass cuts back, and now you bleed,
alone in the wreckage you swore wasn’t yours.

Karma doesn’t knock—it breaks the door,
it creeps in quiet, it settles the debt,
no need for vengeance, no need for rage,
I’m healed, I’m whole, and you’re still lost.

And now? A shadow chasing its own ghost,
running, running, never home,
but the past always knows where you sleep.

Endlessly I walk through a blinded dream          
Where are you now my darling.      
I miss you every minute of everyday,    
it seems so long that you have been gone,      
I wonder If I saw you again,      
Would my name still linger or would it be forgotten to your lips?      
Would time have made us strangers?                
Could our love be the same as it once was?   Would you reach out and hold my hand if we are reunited once more,    
    
Please save me as I slowly slip into a puddle of my tears and drown in despair,          
You alone help me stand,  
It was you that helped me find a way through rough nights and tough of days?                
                  
I wonder if you think of me ?            
When you look up at the pale moon,  
Or the crimson sky, watching the slow sinking sun between the hills,                  
It's like fire sinking into the cold earth,              
This is how my life feels now,                    
As if losing you extinguished the blaze.            
The impalpable ash becoming night,                
While memory of you is like my moonlit sky sacred, and every moment we shared, locked in forever.                    
                    
Every thought, sound, smell, song, and taste,  
Everything carries me to you, a sacred place,  
Everything that exists transports me back to your embrace.                    
The sound of your voice, your calming words used to still my restless soul.                    
I planted different fruit orchards to try find your taste,  I could not .                
I planted orchids to remind me of love  and your beauty. None could compare.                
I grew the finest roses to smell you again, the scent faded.                
I looked for you but you were gone, only when i closed my eyes could I see you, for a moment .          
                    
If I could fold my heart into a paper airplane,  
I would throw it from great heights,                    
To sail through boundless air towards you where it might land—                    
Where you could unfold it and make it whole again.                    
                    
I wonder if you wait for me, as I long for you,    for i never stopped loving you,                  
And I will never cease to love you.                    
I cannot forget the way you looked at me,  
your beautiful green eyes, emerald of beauty      
I've never forgotten that feeling of when I first gazed upon you, seeing stars shine and eternity in your eyes,              
Now I'm left holding that moment as life passes through life, that is my forevermore.  
                  
I remember how I swore I would leave before you, Unable to bear the thought of losing you,  
But you left before me, how I remember that day and now I’m left with emptiness.                
        
I gave you one last kiss upon your brow            
As I said farewell, parting from you,              
My shattered soul left alone in ache,                  
I stood there for a moment that felt like 100 years,                    
Closing my eyes tightly, hoping this is just a dream.                
As my love has left like lost doves,          
Unable to find their way home                    
Lost in a storm                  
                    
And while I remain,                    
Left to wonder endlessly through blinded dreams,                    
Eyes shut, visions I can’t hold,                    
But still I see,                    
While missing you near me.                    
                    
My heart torn from my chest amidst the roar,  
My spirit tormented by the longing and sorrow that is mine,                    
Broken into a million pieces, part of me now missing,                    
A puzzle that will never be whole.                    
My anger raging, I asked God, Why you?            
It sounds selfish, but you were always better at this,                    
But now I’m alone to live in the past as I walk forward,                    
Even my page, with words, feels empty and blank without you.                    
                    
And I hold within my hand the memories of you,                    
My pen shivers and shakes,                    
As the words I write reinforce the structure of my heart                    
The memories, all I have left.                          
How they creep through my thoughts,              
To the deep of my being,                    
Weeping from inside while I weep outward,      
I’ve run dry of tears while my soul drowns within.
      
I think of the happiness we shared,                    
And try to smell your perfume in visions I cannot grasp,                    
The scent of your hair, the touch of your fingers across my face.                
How can I save what is gone,                    
Unless through fading imagery?                    
Nothing can compare—                    
You are all that I see,                    
A dream within a dream.                    
                    
Each day, each hour, I feel that you are with me,                    
Each thought of you im reminded by the sweetness in each flower of the day.                
Longing to kiss your lips, as you seek mine.    
The vision of happiness is gone,                    
But in me, the fire burns  unextinguished or forgotten.                
My love for you feeds my soul,                    
Keeping me alive until that final moment,         When we will meet again.                    
            
I am able to live knowing I will be in your arms once more.                    
For beyond life’s door, there is peace,                    
I’m sure of this.                    
When you reach out and call me,                    
I will come to you,                    
And this is my only comfort.

She smiled—an angel, I swear.
We spoke like echoes of old laughter,
our coffees worlds apart, yet drawn close.

She, gorgeous. Me, just me.
She liked my style; I liked her everything.
By dusk, Italian wines and pasta await—

I don't eat pasta, but for her, why not?
Perhaps I'll dine my nerves on wine,
sip fate like a beautiful accident.

Life beautiful mystery
Unfolding in the most curious ways.