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?

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.

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.

In the halls of guilt, where coins
sing like crickets in the dark,
their psalms rise, a lattice of smoke
curling from a dying flame.
fear not the sins of others,
rather the sins of their own,
more than the sins of devil,
It's the sins of the Father after all.

The altar gleams, not with divinity,
but with the cold sheen of rivers
choked by gold. Their voices echo,
hollow gourds beaten by the wind,
each note a shard of glass
pressed against the throat of belief.

Abaddon watches like a stormcloud
over fields of withered grain.
Fenriz prowls, the wolf of shadows,
gnawing on the roots of broken truths.
Lilith lingers softly, silent as moonlight
spilling through cracks in cathedral walls.

They speak of paradise,
but their heaven is a spider’s web
each thread spun from fear, damnation
each catch a soul entombed in amber.
Their god sharpens his teeth
on the brittle bones of their charity,
his laughter a hymn
their hearts refuse to name.

In each of their prayers, I hear
the rustle of dry leaves,
the empty rattle of seedless pods.
Proserpine weeps for the earth
they have scorched,
her spring now a withered hand
grasping at ash.

Their god is a clockwork beast,
wound tight by trembling hands.
They chant, hoping to drown
the clatter of its gears,
but silence escapes them,
a snake sliding through the reeds.

The equinox tides waves rise,
drowning the stones of their empire.
Sekhmet’s roar is the crack
of a long-dry riverbed,
her fury older than their creeds.
Even their God, devourer of innocents is amused,
He turns his gaze from the spectacle,
disgusted by their hollow words.

They build temples of shadows,
caverns where the echo of truth
has been smothered
by velvet robes and incense.
Pay now an sin later, their collection bowls
overflow with fallen grace.
Yet the gods of old they look on,
a quiet council of stars
watching the slow collapse.

No fire awaits them but the one
they ignite and kindled themselves
a furnace of words,
a pyre of promises.
Their sermons crumble,
a tower of sand in the tide,
and the gods laugh,
not in malice, but in pity,
a path leading to self righteousness,
yet all return to the fertile soil,
all know this as truth, even if they say not.
buy a place in the eternal Nothing!
There preachers stand preaching,
follow me and get lost, eternity for a price
and his flock follow blindly,
Sheep being lead to a slaughter.

The viral virus we've cast and caught,
A net of likes and brain-dead thought
For every child and grown soul, too,
Is drawn into the cellphone's social view.
They scroll and swipe, they tap and stare,
Consumed by screens that trap and snare.

In homes and parks, on cornered streets,
They bow to feeds and trending tweets.
Through each Facebook, X, Twit and share,
They’re Snapchat an Tinders filters unaware.
Just last week, in passing by,
I saw someone's numb dull, vacant eye.

They chase the numbers“likes” and fame
Each social share a lure, each view a claim.
MomToks with tricks and TikTok’s in trance,
People dressed stupidly, choreograph dance.
Where fake story skim and rumours spread,
While real connections end up dead.

Pause, dear friend, and see the cost,
Of souls we’ve sold and minds we’ve lost.
This endless feed, this soulless game,
Steals their wonder, dims their flame.
It fills their thoughts with empty charms,
And leaves them numb to loving arms.

For once, they'd dream and run and play,
In worlds where magic lit the way.
They’d reach for skies in fields of green,
And feel the joy of life’s true sheen.
But tell me now, what have they gained,
From screens an socials that leave spirits vain and drained?

Once they read, they laughed, they soared,
In stories deep and lives explored.
With pages stacked by bed and chair,
They found themselves in worlds of care,
Wonders, adventure and whispered thrills,
And gnomes in forests dark on moonlit hills.

Now days they scroll, they swipe, an tap away,
While faces turn zombie hours melt into day.
They drink from streams, endless social feed,
Yet lack the thirst for what they need.
The screen it soothes, it numbs, it tames,
While life outside just calls their names

So turn off the apps and put screens aside,
Let logins an log offs of social feel now deny.
Turn off the feeds, break free twits an chains,
Bring them back from social media's reigns.
In days, you’ll watch their lives awake,
From vicarious dreams that are only fake.

And soon, so soon, they’ll see life anew,
The real wonders left for just a few.
With every song and page and sun,
They’ll find joy not what socials media spun.
And thank you for the life reclaimed,
The beauty found, once dimmed and tamed.

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.

A Sewer of Secondhand Stanzas & Desperate Hands in the Dark
Rotting forum, crusted in filth, a mausoleum for hacks,
where perverts slither between broken metaphors,
their trembling hands typing—no, panting—
over poems that stink of sweat and self-pity,
rejected lovers turned dime-store philosophers,
clawing at rhyme like it's the last cheap thrill
they’ll ever taste.

A graveyard of ghost accounts and hollow praise,
twenty usernames circling the drain,
sniffing each other’s failures and calling it art,
a place where "critique" means slapping a heart
on yet another recycled *****-verse
about “aching souls” and “dying stars.”

Oh, the predators—old men and woman in shadows, lurking, waiting,
writing thin-veiled fantasies and calling them poems,
prying at the young with tired compliments,
sickly sweet as rotting fruit.
They call themselves poets—
but they reek of desperation and dust.

And the “art” they birth?
Half-baked, half-rhymed, half-thought,
trite as a teenager’s diary scrawl,
sewn together with clichés and copied lines,
whimpering at their own reflections,
******* to mediocrity.

The site itself? A glitching, gasping relic,
a dumpster fire on dial-up,
barely held together by duct tape and denial,
its threads—old, stale, circling the same six topics,
poetry regurgitated like bad meat,
a static grave for static minds.

So here’s your goodbye, Deep Underground—
a place where talent goes to die,
where “community” is a euphemism for
mutual mediocrity,
where words are not weapons, not wonders—just waste.

Let it sink. Let it rot.
It was never alive to begin with.
Good riddance to bad *******.

You were a kiss in a blender,
A chandelier of weeping strings.
I drank your name through static,
Swallowed lullaby shards
Wrapped in candy grief.

We made love beneath wormlight
You wore thunder like silk.
I gave you stars;
You brought a fork to my funeral
And laughed as I bled jam.

I begged through balloon fangs,
My ribs tuned to backward echoes.
But you rode a fishbone bicycle
Into another soft apocalypse.

Your love bit only in shivers.
You adored me as glitter and salt
But fled when my tears grew limbs
And asked for names.

You left with ducks in lab coats,
Prescribing your smile in pills.
I sleep in your ghost’s teacup,
Paint storms on toast,
And scream into jellyfish.

I kissed your silence’s socket,
Wore your absence like velvet plague.
Mannequins fed me your Sanskrit lies
On glitter IVs.

I built microwave shrines
To your maybe.
My therapist asked who you were
I said: expired milk with blood on the back.

Your ghost plays hopscotch in my skull.
Mirrors wear your grin like gospel.
I search aquariums for your stare
Only castles remain, and even they refuse me.

Tell me—was I your scrapbook of ruin,
Your empathy vacation,
Your control carnival?

The spiral laughs.
It spins in your perfume.
And I clap
For my own collapse.

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?

The river
— still —
not dead,
just holding its breath like it’s been doing for centuries,
like me,
warm-skinned, waiting,
a vein of old gods slicing the belly of the land.

Light drips
thick, slow
like honey from a wound,
slick across willow bones,
and dusk swallows it
without a sound.

Crickets scratch
violins made of rust and dirt,
screaming lullabies for the lost.
Each note
a tooth pulled from the silence,
buried beneath the reeds.

Maple leaves
curl like fists,
anger in amber,
whispers of fire choking the wind—
they’ve seen too many falls,
too many barefoot ghosts
asking the trees for answers they never give.

Bridges bend
like old men
too tired to hold stories anymore—
but they do.
They do.
Their backs cracked with the weight of kisses,
of “forever”s spit through clenched teeth,
wood soaked in the sweat of holding on.

Sun bleeds out
slow
gold leaking into black,
into arms that forgot how to hold anything but
absence.

And the river just keeps
keeps.
Keeps.

Still.
Silent.
A throat never cut
but always open.
Waiting for the moon
to swallow it whole
and call it peace.

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.

How dare you
click in the dark
with soft, uncalloused fingers
scraping what you didn’t bleed for,
scratching through ash
for sparks you didn’t birth.

I see you.
Vulture-eyed, dead-hearted,
sifting through soul for a dopamine hit.
You didn’t live it.
You didn’t scream it into a pillow at 3 a.m.
You didn’t shake with the ink.

You didn’t die for it.
I did.

But still
you rip out ribs of rhythm,
plagiarize pulse,
regurgitate ghosts
with your baby-AI mimicry,
your Frankensteined stanzas
stitched from the flesh of my grief,
I noticed,
I see you.

Little girl,
child of the click-and-paste spell,
you wear stolen metaphors
like cheap perfume
loud, tacky, choking,
wondering how it must be to feel?

I see the sudden genius
that bloomed from nowhere.
A drought of silence—then flood.
Words once dry
now drip with my salt, my blood, my pain
and you dare to name it yours?

I know my structure.
I fathered that form.
I spit syllables like bones,
stacked them in temples of torment,
broke English to make it feel,
broke myself to make it real,
and you think I don't know?

And now?
You **** the marrow of my music,
flesh-ripper,
content-corpse-dancer,
vampire with no hunger but vanity.
You steal scars and call it style,
Not all vampires **** blood.

Wonder, as you do
Muse won’t visit you.
She’s not fooled by filters
or your cosplay of pain.
She knows the difference
between trauma
and trend.

I see the telltales,
Regurgitated vocabulary,
gpt traced structure.
the sudden depth in shallow ponds,
the cracked mask of borrowed fire.
Your voice stinks of syntax theft.
I smell my soul on your verses,
One look I and I knew immediately.

You can’t fake origin.
You cant fake originality.
You can’t counterfeit truth.
And when you post your pretty poem,
know this:
You’re wearing my bones.
And they don’t fit.

I made this style.
I made this monster.
And it does not love its thief.

So burn in the echo.
You earned that silence.
You earned that shame.
May it echo louder
than any stolen applause
you’ll ever gain,
for every like you get,
know it's not yours.

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.

We hurt each other for a dull fun, take bitter draughts to numb the pain, ’til our shattered hearts beat hollow as tin drums, ensnared in a love born barren, a lone communion,  a pale flame sputtering in the dark.  
  
I want to know by what dark alchemy are we bound to fears we cannot see, each fear  
a shadow thickening around the sinking soul? No sorrow strikes deeper than a mind torn, unraveling at the edge of itself.  
  
I am bled of tears, wrung out , this time let ache have its reign, until ache itself goes numb, Grip slipping, a slow erosion of my soul, O, heavens above, what bleak rapture is this, where the void weighs heavier than we can confess?  
  
I float, moored to fractured skies, drunk on the height, afraid to descend, but if my voice ever finds you, stranger, then perhaps you, too, know the taste of solitude.  
  
Tell me, how did we come to this?  
Eyes turned dim, starved for clarity,  
where nothing mourns more than a mind undone, where night itself becomes the wound.  
  
Exiled from tears, I spill them from within,  
my hold loosening around my heart, slowly everything fractures, and in that chasm, nothing is what it seems.  
  
I lost my halo, I lost my grace, I bear my own vice, an anti-saint cast out, self-exiled, a phantom wearing dust for a crown.  
  
Scaling walls to escape the fall, though the abyss beckon, I planted seeds I forgot were there, roots now breaking through cold stone,  
each blossom of thorns a memory buried.  
  
My thoughts bound in quiet ruin, shall I raise the rafters or let myself fade away into eternity, I flicker white, fade to black, bleed to blue, let my soul be exhumed, to be known.  
  
Ashes and dust, my feelings fade in thin air,  
A beggar for truths hidden deep, in a soul  
burned out and breaking through, haunted only by the echo of desire an enlightenment.  
  
My aching entombed, my soul pulsing low,  
a captive within, yet im bound to bleed, lost in a labyrinth dark, wandering slow, my pains then calls, though I dare not go.  
  
In silent paths where shadows teem,  
the heart’s last sanctuary, and pain
heavier than it seems...

Sometimes I sit here,
staring at the blank page,
wondering what to write about
what’s rattling around in my head.
Is it something profound,
or am I just ******* again?
Sometimes I think I’m winding people up,
other times, I’m genuinely trying to say something.

I write when I’m happy.
I write when I’m sad.
I write when the world looks beautiful
and when it looks like the bottom of a bin,
Even if it might smell a bit ******,
Sometimes it’s rage pouring out,
sometimes it’s a laugh at my own expense.
I never really know what’ll spill onto the page
maybe my heart, maybe just nonsense,
Unfortunately I won't apologise,
If my words are offensive,
maybe you the problem not me,
I said something about religious fella,
The other day while writing.

Someone told me in a comment,
“You’re going to hell. I’ll pray for you.”
“Brilliant,” I said, “save me a seat down there.
We’ll compare notes.”
It didn’t bother me
the offended always amuse me.
If they hate it, I say,
“Read it again or don’t read it at all.
I’m not writing for you, anyway.”
What do you want me to do ?
Say im sorry?
Never going to happen.

Faith? Oh, I toy with it,
poke at it,
hold it up to the light like a shattered bottle.
I’m not asking you to agree,
just asking you to think.
Otherwise, life would be boring, wouldn’t it?

Then there’s the poetry I read sometimes
half the time I think,
“What was this bloke smoking?”
Other times, I look at my own stuff and think,
“Maybe if I’d smoked something,
it’d actually be good.”
Where is that ****** muse when you need her?

The knock on the door the other day was priceless, though.
A couple of witnesses, chirping away:
“It’s your lucky day! You can be saved!”
Poor sods didn’t realize I’m already booked for hell.
“Come in,” I said,
“Tea? Oh, don’t mind the taste,
that’s just the poison.
Best get to hospital, hail the Dark Lord!”
They ran, of course,
and I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my tea,
a little dark I know,
but how else do i amuse myself when I'm fresh out of ideas to write about ?

That's when I tell myself, "Just another day."
What thrilling chaos will tomorrow bring?
While my blank page hungers for ink.
Another day to scribble in my mind.

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.

It starts with a text
Hey handsome, you wanna hang?
And I know exactly where this night is going.
No need for games, no need for slow burns,
this isn’t about forever, it’s about now,
about heat and sweat and the way her hips move
like a wild ocean wave ready to crash.
She’s ten years younger but just as reckless,
and I’m not old enough to care.

We meet at the bar, two drinks in, shooters next.
She laughs, head tilted back, hair spilling like whiskey.
The way she sways to the bassline,
hips like liquid, eyes like fire
I swear the whole **** room watches.
They want her.
But she’s here with me,
and she ******* knows it.
A beautifully crafted piece of sin in a silk dress,
long brown hair swinging like a whip,
eyes that will burn holes in your soul,
and a laugh that makes you want more,
she loves my expensive cologne

She leans in, inhales deep,
says, I love the way you smell.
And I know what she means
it’s not the cologne,
not the brand or the bottle,
but the way the night sticks to me,
the way desire leaves its mark,
the way she’ll catch it on the pillow tomorrow
she knows she driving me wild as she comes close to breath me in deeper and deeper,
Oh and how I love how she smells
like a beautifully scented candle
expensive, sophisticated
So dam ****

Dinner is seafood and teasing,
her tongue running over the fork like a promise.
Oysters are on the menu ,
you know they a natural afrodiziac,
Not like we need them.
We flirt like we haven’t been tangled in sheets before.
Like I haven’t already left bruises on her thighs,
owned every inch of her over and over,
its like thunder and lightning when we together, you know there will be a storm!
Everything getting blow away and soaked..excuse the pun.
besides it's not
like she hasn’t clawed down my back,
it's strange we like two wild personality that become one,
even though we live separate lives.
like we don’t already know
exactly where this night is heading.
But the build-up? Oh, that’s the foreplay.
The tension, the knowing
the anticipation is the first **** of the night.

Back at mine,
door barely closed before we’re devouring,
my hands under her dress,
her breath hot against my jaw,
she bites because she can,
because she knows I like it.
Clothes—forgotten, skin—slick,
the bed—just another battlefield.
She moves like a lioness,
hungry, wild, untamed.
I hold her in one arm like she weighs nothing,
she climbs me like a fever dream,
moans like a sin sung in the dark.
We **** like animals, like fire and gasoline,
like this night will never end.

Morning comes, tangled sheets and tangled limbs.
She stretches, smirks, straddles me one more time,
a slow, lazy encore to the symphony of last night.
Coffee, croissants, a shower that turns into another round.
She smells like sweat and perfume and something sweeter
freedom, maybe.
The babysitter calls, and we know what that means.
Time to part, time to slip back into our separate lives.
But there’s no sorrow, no longing.
We both know the game, and ****, do we play it well.

And when she texts again
You up for another round?
I grin, reply
Tell the babysitter not to wait up.
Because everyone needs a **** buddy,
but not everyone gets one this good.
until the next episode
life is life

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.

The willow drank my name from silver rain,
yet left my thirst to bloom in salted mist;
Love hummed through wormholes stitched with shadowed pain,
and kissed me once, then marked me as a list.

I chased her echo through a coral field,
where seabirds wrote in cursive on the wind;
My ribs unzipped, a galaxy revealed
a void where all my wanting had been pinned.

She danced like Saturn's ring across my sleep,
then vanished in the hush of Neptune's yawn;
I held her in the roots of stars too deep
to bloom before the hour love is gone.

So still I orbit songs I never knew
and dream of being real inside her blue.

Because of you, the springtime scents oppress,
I ache in gardens bloomed with floral breath.
Your face is lost in veils of nothingness,
Your lips forgotten in cold death’s caress.

Thinking of you, I love the statues white,
That drowse in parks, in silence held and blind.
I’ve lost your voice, your laughter, and your light,
Your eyes erased like footprints swept by wind.

Like flowers bound unto their perfumed shade,
I cling to vague remembrance, frail and torn.
This pain’s a wound too deep to be allayed
Your touch would leave me more than bruised and worn.

Though I’ve forgotten love, I see you still
In falling stars, through windows dim and still.

How often do you look inside,
and find the parts you try to hide?
The dreams you lost, the fear you keep,
the thoughts that stir when you're half-asleep?

How often do you walk away,
from chances you meant to take that day?
Do you watch the world go passing by,
and feel too small to even try?

How often do you fall, then crawl,
wishing you could stand up tall?
But something holds you in the dirt
a voice that whispers, “you’ll get hurt.”

How often do you speak your mind,
and leave the careful words behind?
Or search for truth in what you feel,
even if it cuts, even if it's real?

How often do you cry alone,
in quiet rooms that feel like stone?
And still, somehow, you wipe your eyes
and face the day before sunrise.

How often do you trust what's new,
the road ahead with no clear view?
Or sit and stare at empty air,
at things you wish were really there?

How often do you try to see
the parts of you you hide so deep?
To open up, to take the chance
on love, on hope, on sweet romance?

How often do you ride the wave,
let go, be bold, be less afraid?
Or do you laugh, or break the rules,
play your part and bend the tools?

But through the dark and through the light,
through every wrong, through every right
when all is lost or all is won,
when storms are gone and skies are sun

Just be yourself—no need to prove,
no need to run, no need to move.
You’re enough in every place
in every fall, in every grace.

I have frequently wondered,  
paused amidst the tides of mortal thought,  
if the titanic significance of dreams  
is more than shadows of waking moments,  
more than Freud’s puerile maps of the psyche,  
more than echoes of a terrestrial dance.  

In dreams, perhaps,  
life and matter fracture,  
time and space dissolve like mist on the abyss,  
and the mind, unfettered,  
sojourns to ethereal worlds  
where barriers fade and silence hums.  

I have felt the tremors of such thoughts,  
arising from the wintry slumber  
when a figure entered my life
a repellent scion of barbaric decay,  
watery eyes dim,  
a yellow beard untamed,  
lips heavy with the weight of ignorance.  

This life was not life,  
but a half-slumber,  
a bovine meander through Catskill fastnesses  
where morals vanished  
and law was but the whisper of wind.  

Yet, in nocturnal wanderings,  
this one soared to spheres unknown.  
Ululating in drunken reveries,  
raging against a shining thing,  
a mocking blaze that danced in abysses,  
that laughed and shook  
as vows were cast to leap high and burn through  
any hindrance,  
to reach the great cabin of brightness  
with queer, distant music.  

Oh, these visions!  
Great edifices of light,  
oceans of vast space,  
shadowed mountains rising in grandeur,  
valleys where echoes lingered like mournful ghosts—  
and always the blazing entity,  
the laughing tormentor.  

Bound in strait-jackets,  
raving in words as wild  
as the primeval forests of a distant home,  
the dialect coarse,  
the imagery sublime.  

Dreams of abysses and soaring within them,  
burning,  
always burning through the veils  
of mortal comprehension.  
Revenge sought,  
triumphant and terrible,  
against the light that mocked,  
against the unknown that devoured.  

What truth lay in these ravings?  
What life was glimpsed,  
what fiery cosmos  
beyond our brittle frame?  
For such words spoke not of myths,  
nor sang the songs of men.  
These visions erupted from a place  
that no mortal book or legend could name.  

Thus, I sit in wonder,  
speculating on these blurred fragments,  
these shadowed memories of another life.  
Perhaps, in dreams,  
we touch a truer reality
a life more vast,  
more infinite,  
than this feeble sojourn upon the earth.

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

I am told that the devil is a name
spoken only by the wicked and fearful,
a shadow cast on by the soul's yearning,
an accusation that stains the lips.
But yet they speaks of righteousness,
when their body trembles with desire?

"Who then amongst you dares to call lust a sin or immoral, when it beats like fire deep within your soul, the pulse of your life itself, breathing flames into the hollows of your hungry heart?"

It pulls the heart, it stirs the mind,
A craving wild, a tie that binds the blind.
but in its wake, the soul may weep,
For lust’s sweet dance, it cannot keep.

It wears the guise of want and need,
Just emptiness , yes the devil's deed,
It asks for more, and gives no peace,
And leaves the heart without release.

I walk through streets of gold and ash,
where the righteous bow their heads while sins they stash,
speaking of salvation like it’s a currency
but where are the truths of the flesh that you hide?

The humming of the earth, the warmth of touch,
the weight of hunger unspoken?
Am I evil because I feel it,
because I crave the warmth of a shadow,
that the righteous shun while desperately holding onto their immoralities in the night?
Pointing and judging because I found use in a name,

The words of old still whisper silently through the consciousness of man,
the devil sits in judgment,
but the chains that bind are thin,
woven of fear,
crafted from silence.
Is not the soul its own judge,
the heart its own trial?

So who is to say
what is right or wrong,
when we live and breathe in the dance of contradictions,
a life woven through our inflictions?

The righteous will speak
of what the devil wills and those that speak his name are his children,
but they will not speak
of how the cardinal sins call them
to feed there own mortal and immoral desires.
They will not speak
of the way love burns
when it’s wrapped in lust,
The will not mention how they bathe in gluttony, greed, sloth, envy, wrath, and pride.

Maybe the devil is not a name,
but a moment
an hour in the heart of the living,
where the body forgets its guilt
and the soul dares to claim
the space between dark and light,
where pleasure and pain
blur into one,
and I stand,
without judgment,
in the quiet ,after
for how can you judge me,
while your sins are ten fold.

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.

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.

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.

Who needs a cat with its smug, aloof stare,
when you can have a dragon
curled around your armchair?
No hairballs to gag on, no litter box smell
just scales that gleam like molten gold,
a roar that tolls like a dinner bell.

Picture this:
I’m walking my dragon down Main Street,
its tail swiping lampposts, its wings unfurled.
You’d cross the road, wouldn’t you?
No "Here, kitty, kitty" nonsense here
more like "Hey, don’t step on my dragon's tail,
unless you fancy a toasted rear."

Cats claw at your furniture,
but a dragon?
One good huff, and your boss is barbecue
promotion secured, no HR to sue.
And homework?
Gone in a puff of fiery breath,
like a snack too dry to chew.

Dragons don’t purr;
they rumble like thunderclouds,
a warning to the mailman
who thinks he’s brave.
Leave the package at the gate, sir
we’ll fetch it after he’s had his lunch break.

Forget scratching posts;
my dragon’s hobbies are practical:
lighting the grill for marshmallow feasts,
turning burglars to toast
(though they never get past the TV,
artfully left in his food bowl
how kind of them to step so close).hehe

Cats bring you mice as gifts,
but my dragon’s presents?
A flaming pile of junk mail,
your nosy neighbor’s fence,
and an accidental singe of the hedges.
The yard looks better scorched, anyway.

So go on, take your catnip, your bells,
and your feline "charm."
I’ll take a dragon with its fiery alarm.
Because when the world sees me astride my beast,
no one’s asking "Got a moment for Greenpeace?" No fella no time for that, have you met snappy.

Instead, it’s awe, it’s terror, it’s glory.
My dragon, my friend, my living story.
And while cats demand your undying affection

dragons? They burn your enemies.
No contest, no question.

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.

A flash of light,
sharp, broken glass underfoot,
her smile
captive, electric, a god's cruel gift
glows in the fog,
flickers, trembles,
an untamed star
lost in the city's steel veins.
But what is beauty if it drips from the mouth of ghosts,
whispering her name in silence?

She stands,
a flame scattered across the concrete sky
softer than any dream that burns the soul,
wilder than what we pretend to touch.
Do you remember how her voice shivers through you,
cracked vinyl spinning memories,
dust, decay, and heat?
Gods do not look this way;
they cower behind the scent of burning roses.

Her fingers wrap around the world,
each movement violent with grace,
but I see the dark beneath
that sweetness,
and I wonder if love is the rope
she ties around herself
or the knife she drives through the hearts
of the lost.

Her laugh is a fracture in time,
a moment too pure,
too much,
that I swallow whole
like acid, burning my throat.
What do we call that
when nothing left feels real?
When her eyes turn,
and the night begins again—
silent, dark,
and heavy as broken wings?

But I cannot forget
the way her spirit
ignited the ruins of me
one smile, one movement,
a blaze too fierce to die,
too pure to touch without ruin.

Do you remember the sky when she passed
how it bent
and bled for her?

And yet, she is gone.
She always was.
An illusion,
a creation of something I cannot hold.
But God, how she burned.

Once again the light of night stares deeply,
Moon’s got me, fingers in my skull,
cracking, peeling, tearing at thoughts
let me be,
I never gave permission for
laughing, smirking
like it owns the night,
like it owns the pain that won’t let me go.

Time folds itself like crumbling paper,
rips apart, mends itself wrong
Minute by minute,
one AM, two, three, four, six,
numbers, fragments, slipping through fingers,
nothing makes sense but the heaviness.
One more hour, one more moment,
and I’m still awake,
count sheep, count dogs, count cats
Nothing!

Sleep? A liar,
a trick of the light,
a hallway that leads nowhere,
a door that doesn’t open
I chase it,
fall into it,
but I wake,
each time
repeating
staring at the ceiling,
listening to the wall breathe,
mind racing away from me,
why won't you let me be.

If I could
I would tear the moon from the sky,
break his light,
fold him into something small,
a paper boat,
something that could sail off,
something I can crush.
But no,
I watch
smug, distant,
untouchable,
repeated,
the moon, laughing.

And me?
I’m a shadow of a shadow,
too awake to sleep,
too tired to be.
The body is a thought,
the thought is a whisper
where am I,
what is this,
where did the night go?

I watch myself,
waiting,
waiting,
waiting
until I collapse or fade,
until the universe sighs,
until time stops pretending,
until sleep gives in
or I let go.

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

A fusion of free verse, prose poetry, and lyrical refrain  
By Malcolm Gladwin  ( the video is what we did as kids to be free )
 
Be free—like a bird caught in the updraft,  
like a fish slipping silver through the currents,  
like a balloon let go from a child’s hand,  
floating, floating, floating into the blue yonder.  
Be free like a song sung with no fear of echoes,  
like wild grass bending only to the wind.  
 
Life is one life.  
One breath, one moment, one golden chance  
to walk barefoot where the waves kiss the shore,  
where the sea salt burns your nose,  
where the wind does not ask before it touches your skin.  
Run. Jump. Throw your arms into the sky  
let the sun catch you midair.  
 
Have you ever watched how the butterfly dances,  
how the bee lands, drinks, moves on  
how the river spills itself over smooth stones,  
never asking where it must go?  
Sit beneath the weeping willow,  
watch the shadows shift, toes in the passing current  
the water never waits, yet it is never lost.  
 
Be free. Jump. Clothes on, feet muddy,  
off the edge, off the bank, off the cliff  
five, four, three, two—SPLASH.  
Let the river take your weight,  
let it wash away your hardship,  
let the wild raspberries stain your lips,  
let the lemon grass hold you as you watch the clouds drift  
turning into faces, into beasts, into whispers.  
 
And when the city calls, remember:  
freedom is not found in glass towers,  
not in the weight of gold, not in the rush of clocks.  
It is in the air we forget to breathe,  
the quiet moments we do not hold long enough,  
the waiting at the bus stop when we look up really look  
and see life moving, unchained.  
 
But my freedom  
my freedom lies in the ocean’s roar,  
in the summer rain that does not ask permission  
before it kisses my skin.  
 
Here, I am alive.  
Here, I am free.

Watch the video below - it's a place we went to when we were hot and felt like blowing off some steam , being free in the middle of nature.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?si=nTE89XbZfGmA54W9&v=BDi38mUM0xY&feature=youtu.be

The moon
pale, round, soft buttered crust,
spills gold over apple-skin grass,
whole and warm the hush of dusk.

Night birds drift,
weightless ink,
brushing the sky with feathered sighs,
folding themselves into silhouette dreams.

Olive fields hum,
rustling evening’s breath,
leaves whispering secrets to the wind,
soft earth cradling the roots of time.

Ladders lean
old embrace,
tracing the spine of the sturdy trunk,
where children once climbed,
their laughter spun into bark—
a lullaby left behind.

Noon melts,
slow honey,
sinking sweetly in waiting arms,

while the moon watches,
                quiet, whole,
                        a silver lantern hung in sleep’s embrace.

Tick—tock, the wall blinks back,
hands circling our days like vultures.
Sunrise, sunset—another grain falls.

We count time in echoes, in light-years,
watching comets carve their nameless orbits,
wandering like satellites without a home.

Falling into the tomorrow.
We think we know

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 sun bows slowly, mourning the lost son,
a candle flickers—one last breath,
whispered through a temple of fallen dust,
where the wind kneels—where silence feels like comfort,
cut from the cloth of the wordless sky. Here we stand.

A hand traces the names on ancient stone,
a name once worn, now barely warn.
The years have left their weight, as there they wait,
each carefully carved letter like a jagged might,
though the body’s gone, the soul’s still sight.

She told him once: "Sow your steps where light still sews,
pare your grief where rivers flows
let no weight of loss take more than air
never will you find me, neither here nor there."
She smiled then—bare in truth, yet strong as bear,
roaring loudly at eternity,
spinning the cosmos into a mother’s care,
a fallen sigh, her golden hair.

The clock hands turn slow, but time still stares,
each tick a tremor, a time we remember—each tock a tare.
He stands at the edge of then and there,
where memories bend like a bending bare,
where fate unwinds with a tangled wear.

A voice hums soft in the scented breeze:
"Your soul is stitched into the stars with ease,
your love is more than what the world still maars or sees.
When I was here, you held me dear,
but know this now—I was never mere."

The sea replies in endless waves,
pulling the past through endless days,
unfolding time in fleeting new ways,
where loss is love that never waives.
Where death is just the name of change,
where love is light in shifting veins.

He turns, he walks, his shadow sores,
each step an echo, yet never sore.
The world moves on—his grief takes form,
but she’s still born, through breath, through storm.

Through ink on pages, through words that write,
through every wrong that turns to right.
She lingers not in earth nor stone
but in the rite of all unknown.

I hope you’re awake.
The world is breaking.
We don’t want comfort
we want peace.

They say you made us.
Then why does hunger
wear your name?
Why do your children
sleep in the cold?

We ask for quiet.
You answer with silence.
We sing to the sky,
but no echo returns.

Did you craft this grief?
The pain we hold?
Or did we give you shape
to carry the blame?

We argue, we fight,
we fall for belief
but no hand lifts us
when we fall.

Your name lives in laws,
in fire,
in war.
If you wrote the book,
why let it burn?

No crown.
No wings.
No final word.
Just hearts breaking
in the dark.

Still, the bombs fall.
The children weep.
The oceans rise.
And hope thins.

Are you still watching,
or did you turn away
before the smoke rose?

I used to pray.
Now I reflect.
If you are real,
then why the silence?

PS:
We need a miracle.

Beneath the pale and flickering light,
A soul is lost in endless night.
No voice to greet, no hand to hold,
A heart grows weary, dark, and cold.

The walls are close, the air is thin,
And loneliness both without and within.
The echoes of the mind take shape,
A silent torment, no escape.

The hours stretch like shadows long,
A whisper turns to siren song.
The ticking clock becomes a drum,
Each beat a step, yet nowhere to run.

Memories fade, their colors drained,
Identity is slowly strained.
Who am I here, in this small box,
A ghost among these endless locks?

The silence roars, a deafening scream,
Reality blurs into a dream.
Faces emerge, then fade away,
Phantom voices beg to stay.

Paranoia grips the mind,
Truth and lies intertwined, combined.
The walls, they watch, they seem alive,
The will to fight cannot survive.

Fingers trace the marks of stone,
Carved by thought of left alone.
Each line a story, untold pain,
A cycle bound to self-contained chains.

The self begins to turn on itself,
No books, a mirrors, just past on the shelf.
Time dissolves in the airless haze,
Each moment repeats, a maddening maze.

The mind revolts, it starts to spin,
A kaleidoscope of chaos within.
Faces of loved ones, moments of joy,
Tear at the heart they now destroy.

Hallucinations become a friend,
An escape from this unending end.
Yet even they turn cruel and cold,
As madness takes its firmest hold.

Outside, the world remains unaware,
Of minds confined to despair.
The scars, though hidden, run so deep,
Wounds that time can rarely keep.

For those who leave these thoughts of gray,
The sunlight blinds; they cannot stay.
Society feels foreign, strange,
A fractured soul, deranged, estranged.

It's hard to speak of this silent plight,
The broken hearts lost to the night.
For solitude, in the mind is a cruel excess,
Is not progress, but hopelessness.

A world that turns its back on pain,
Breeds ghosts in people, humanity slain.
And in their cries, a truth unfolds:
A lonely mind destroys the soul.

Oh, children, come gather, and listen in close,
To a tale of behaviors that bother the most!  
A lesson in kindness, as quick as a tick:
This little mantra, don’t be a ****.      
      
Imagine young Larry, quite rude in his ways,
Who butted in line at the fairgrounds for days.
He’d push, he’d shove, with a grin so wide,
Till they tossed his *** right out for his rude little pride!      
      
Then there’s Miss Claire, who’s quite the chatter,
But always she talks as if no one else matters.
She’ll cut in mid-sentence, she’ll hijack the floor,
Till friends disappear, right out the back door!  
  
And look! There’s sly Benny, so slick and so witty,
With backhanded compliments, oh so pretty
To say, “You look nice… today, at least!”      
He thinks it’s a joke, but he’s just a rude little beast.

Now meet Mr. Fred, the ultimate champ,
Who’d win at all costs, like a cold-hearted lamp!
He’d gloat if he won, if he lost, he would pout
Until everyone’s cheers turned to, “Hey, Fred, get the hell out!”

And don’t get me started on poor Mr. Lee,
Who talks on his cellphone for all to see!
The bus hears his life, the ups and the downs,
And wonders aloud, “Does he think we’re all clowns?”      
      
Or ghosty Miss May, who’ll vanish and dart,
Till she needs a big favor then, oh! She’ll take heart!
But friends aren’t just there for a quick disappear,
Be there when it’s good, be there when it’s drear!      
      
Yes, kindness is golden, but some never see,
Like Finn who one-ups, never lets things be.   “You climbed that mountain? I climbed it twice!”
Oh, dear, someone save us from one-up advice!

And next, meet young Theo, who leaves a big mess,
In every shared space, with no thought to confess.
A spilled drink, a wrapper, some crumbs from his treat
This ******* assumes that the fairies will clean up his feet!

Then there’s dear Patsy, who skips every “thanks”
Who treats help from others like limitless banks.
The waiter, the driver, her parents, her friends,
She takes and she takes, till the friendship just ends.

Now Oliver’s always the first to take credit,
Though others around him are ones who have led it!
He swoops in and beams, and says, “Yes,
that was me!”
While others just sigh, as they stand silently.

Or grumpy Miss Jan, who’ll twist a small slight,
Into a feud that could last her for life!
Instead of forgiving or letting it go,  
She’ll hang on like a dog with a bone, oh no that's just so!

And finally, Sammy, who’s loud and who’s brash,
Who loves to start fights and go out and splash.
A “keyboard warrior” with no heart in sight
Stirring up trouble on screens late at night.      

So remember, dear children, it’s really quite slick,
To act with some kindness, DONT BE A ****.
For friends are like flowers; they don’t grow on stone  
Water them kindly, don’t live life alone!

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.

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.

I stopped it
right there
in my mind
between one tear
and the next blink.
The world cracked still.
Like God forgot the script.
Like clocks
finally choked on their lies.

And I walked
barefoot,
through the frozen ache of light
curling like fog around a laugh
you almost had.

I tasted
the rain before it hit the ground,
let it linger on my tongue
like the names I never said.
Kissed the steam
off your coffee cup
and whispered secrets
to the dust motes in your room
they listened better than people ever did,
I held your smell in my nose,
drowning in each scent.

A hummingbird mid-flap,
stuck between flight and forever
I kissed it too.
Soft as ambition
dying in a cold city.

I held a flower
for a thousand years.
It never withered.
My hand did.

I found love
locked in the way your lip curled
right before goodbye.
I held that moment
until my own heart cracked
like glass under memory.

You think stopping time heals?
No.
It just slows the pain
to a crawl
so you can savor it.

I walked through lovers
like churches.
Empty.
Sacred.
Haunted by prayers
no one answers anymore.
I touched your cheek,
and you didn’t flinch.
First time.
Last time.
Every time.

I bent over my younger self
still full of fire and delusion.
Didn’t wake him.
Didn’t warn him.
He needed the fall.
We always need the fall.

If I lived forever,
I’d write poems on comet tails
and stitch stars
into the silence.
But I’d still miss you.
Every hour.
Of every never-ending day.

Time isn’t the enemy
it’s the proof
we ever mattered.

But still
in that breathless hush
where nothing moved
I kissed the sky,
held the world in my palm,
and told it:

“Stay here.
Don’t move.
Just let me feel
everything
before it’s gone.”
in the moment
forever.