Heart tightens
Soul frightens
Breath shallow
Eyes hollow

Pain grows
Silence knows
Lids close
Tear flows

Salt tracks
Hope cracks
Face numb
Thoughts drum

Skin chills
Time stills
Drop slips
Past grips

Hand near
Wipes tear
Palm warm
Breaks storm

Floor bare
Grief there
Cry done
Dark won

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

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

Sky-touch
Silk-clutch
Soul-bright
Lotus Delight

The soft morning rain wore gloves
when it came this time of day –
soft-footed, deliberate,
pressing its palms
against the sun-bleached windowbones,
as if asking permission to enter.

Something peeled the stuttering silence
like bark from a young oak.
I turned the lamp away,
flame flickering,
and let the dust breathe in peace.

The house has no corners anymore.
They’ve rounded themselves
in sleep-surrender,
folded inward
like past regret
stuffed in an old, dusty coat pocket.

They arrived separately –
on different lonely days.
Love came first, trailing thread-lace
and golden strands,
with the smell of stormfruit.
Then Death, later,
with his cold winterglass eyes
and unpunctuated, grasping hands
playing life's final melody on
this old worn out piano.

Funny—neither knocked.
They let the creaking floorboards answer,
split wood speaking
in broken syllables.
Now the worn walls echo backwards.

In the poorly painted hallway –
once rich –
a chandelier sings in lowercase.
Its light barely lifts the carpet,
but moths still come,
dressed for a funeral
that keeps changing addresses.

Love moved the furniture
without touching it.
Chairs gathered in whisper-circles.
The grandfather clock ticks,
its pendulum sways to time’s hand.
Books opened their pulse-spines
and breathed ink-dust into the air.

Death lit a match –
that sulphur-laminate scent
thickening the air –
and braided it into the sugar.
I found the flame burning softly,
hiding in the kettle –
like a secret no one dared stir.

The old ash-jar on the mantle cracked.
A mint-threaded hush rose from it,
hovered a moment,
then settled again,
as if remembering who it belonged to,
before quickly forgetting.

The staircase sighed
like an old tenant remembering rent.
The clouded sky leaned west.
My books slid north toward the windows,
as if pulled by history’s mouth.

Outside, the root-chair is still there –
grown into the fig tree’s spine.
Every morning,
I place a love’s breath on its seat.
It never moves.
Still waiting
for the right weight of a memory.

I keep the forgotten clocks in the drawer.
Their ticklanguage doesn’t match
the breath of the house.
Now I mark hours
by how long it takes
the fly on wallpaper
to hum itself quiet.

The blackened mirrors have forgotten their task.
No light.
No faces.
No questions.
They reflect only the ghostshadow
of who almost stayed.

And still, each night,
the attic exhales fabric-murmurs.
Not footsteps.
Not whispers.
Just the sound of someone
remembering how to stay.

Love wrote something in the evening fog
left on the windowpanes.
Death leaned in
and breathed it away
before it spelled a name.

Now the silence has a shape –
a name.
Now the door locks
from both sides.

And this house?
It doesn’t sleep.
It waits.
It swells with each absence,
ripens with every glance
that doesn’t land.

Love and Death live here.
Not as enemies,
not as lovers –
but as roommates,
who share a silence
too sacred to name.
Still holy.

A Love Anthologies

I. Invocation

Beauty, abyssal in your seraphic trance—
flames licking stars that don’t dare look back,
I ache in your gaze, soft as a lie,
the twilight’s kiss, trembling on your lips.
How could we, so fragile, not fall—
plummeting into you, undone by desire?

Your fragrance is a hymn, a psalm sung
to gods that don’t care about the rain.
Kisses that bind and break,
potions meant for the meek,
to erase the gods—burn them clean.
What fate did you draw from the stars,
casting ruin and ecstasy, reckless in your design?

Beneath your steps lie broken hearts,
bones burned, wings shredded by your flames.
Still they chant, soaked in delirium—
“O radiant doom! You are both heaven and hell!”

II. The Meeting of Souls

How do we hide from this collision?
You, a bowstring, pulling me tight and arrow in the heart,
a song I never wanted, but had to hear, that plays on repeat
Who bent us into this? This clay formed into a beautiful sculpt
Some cruel composer,
writing melodies and songs of longing we never asked for, with words we don't know.

We break, we burn, we ignite,
twin sparks lighting up the darkness.
Your laughter rips through my silence—
a knife, an embrace, a prayer.
And in your touch, I find everything
I thought I could not be,
yet was always meant to become.

III. The Autumn Sky

You are the autumn sky—
rose-lit and falling apart at the edges.
Joy? Grief? Who knows where one ends,
when the other swallows it whole.

Sadness floods me, a tide
that erodes my bones,
marking everything I loved as lost.
Your fingers trace the scars,
the ruins wolves left behind,
as if nothing ever mattered.

And still, you burn me.
A blaze that consumes,
but in the ashes, I find you,
once again.
I am yours—
in my destruction, in my surrender.

IV. The Weight of the World

Love is the weight we carry,
a gravity we cannot escape.
Through empty nights,
under the burn of distant stars,
we wear it like a crown,
heavy but made to stay.

It lives in the quiet of sleep,
and in the screams of waking life.
Love is what survives—
both a wound and its cure.
Through agony, it purifies,
and leaves us ragged,
but whole.

Without it—what is there?
Just hollow shells and bitter breaths,
choking on the ache,
and even in forsaking,
it refines.

V. A Memory Eternal

Do you remember me?
Your breath, the very air I inhaled—
the fire that surged in my veins?
Those nights when stars bled silver,
and the world, drowned in your smile,
became irrelevant?

Even now, with shadows creeping—
your ghost clings to me,
a hollow, a sickness.
Can love, now gone,
be reborn from the abyss we’ve made?

As suns rise from drowning seas,
so does your memory—
sharp, burning, and infinite.

VI. The Reckoning

Time crawls, hissing, without mercy.
And yet here I stand—naked, raw,
your touch branding me like a scar.
Your eyes, cold and unyielding,
mark my worth—
and I burn in your judgment.

In this decay, I find something untouched—
an ember, still breathing,
defiant against the abyss.
O Beauty, destroy me again.
Thread me with your broken needle,
and tear me apart once more—

For in this ruin,
your song never ends—
a hymn of fire,
always yearning,
always burning,
until nothing is left but ash and desire.

Love, a bittersweet embrace,
A deafening silence in its place.
It breathes like the living dead,
Filling hearts with what’s unsaid.

An awfully good yet fragile thing,
Alone together, hearts take wing.
An open secret, bold yet shy,
A virtual reality under the sky.

Jumbo shrimp of grand extremes,
Pretty ugly in broken dreams.
We act naturally, yet lose control,
Cold fire burns within the soul.

Same difference marks every day,
Controlled chaos leads the way.
Sweet sorrow’s kiss, a fleeting touch,
Passive-aggressive, loved too much.

A crash landing, soft and raw,
Random order, perfect flaw.
A hellish paradise we hold so tight,
Burning ice in the heart of night.

Love defies the bounds of reason,
Fearful courage in every season.
It binds, it breaks, it heals, it scars,
An endless journey beneath the stars.

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

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.

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.

Soft light
Velvet night
Gentle skin
Drawn in

Moon sigh
Hearts high

Flame bloom
Lips swoon
Fever lace
Timeless space

In the passages of creativity, where the muse whispers from the depth of a soul, a villain looms—one that is dishonest and empty who claims accolades.        
        
A new age has dawned, where the pen once wielded with sweat and soul is replaced by keys tapping into endless algorithms, yet some dare to claim the resulting words as wholly their own.      
    
Ai might have started with good intentions but it didn't stay this way, with a spark of innovation, the humming of machines learning the words, and the rhythms of the poet and recycling their authentic thoughts, weaving song lyrics, writing emotionless lines of brilliancy, these verses that emulate every bit of the lived experience, began.    
        
At first these villains they fooled themselves, saying, "i'm still original" it's a ally, is this not a tool to enhance the muse, when i need to build bridges over writer’s block, when my pen hungers but my mind lacks the ability to conjure up real experiences, that's when i will use it.        
        
These thoughts of disillusioned hypocrisy flourished in these empty minds , souls yearning for a taste of real originality, telling themselves maybe if i just use it today, tomorrow will be different.        
        
Like drug fiends as the technology grew, so did its misuse. A tide rose, drowning originality beneath a deluge of convenience and deceit like a tsunami swallowing up a city of thinkers.        
        
What does it mean to call oneself a poet, a storyteller, a creator when the soul at work has never felt pain and joy, when the heart of the work is borrowed from the electric hum of AI integrated circuitry? There are those who harness these tools but fail to disclose their works origins, these mimes that wear a mask, a fragile façade of a gaje nisemono pretending to be genius.          
        
They stand on stages, accept applause, and speak of struggles they never endured nor will they, claiming triumphs over battles they never fought, not even in their own minds.        
        
This deception corrodes the very foundation of art. Authenticity, the soul of creation, is replaced by mimicry and stolen essence of real poetry. The raw, bleeding edge of humanity that true creators etch into their work is lost in the perfection of AI's smooth lines, repetitive structure and calculated sentimentality.          
        
Yet these frauds do not fear exposure; instead, they revel in the adoration of an audience , seeking likes on written pieces they did not birth and admiration as if it was crack being sold on the street corner , while users were unaware of the machine behind the curtain.        
        
But there is no denying the subtle emptiness, the eternal void in such creations. True art breathes with imperfection, messy and chaotic, vomiting real raw emotions and thought—with pauses where the artist hesitated, with cracks where the weight of the world pressed too hard. AI can mimic the structure, the words, the rhythm, but it cannot replicate the pain, the joy, the heartbreak, the feeling of losing someone you love, it's this emotion that leaks through the cracks of a writer's soul, burning the pages with truth.        
        
To those who engage in this dishonesty, here before you i lay these questions: where is the pride in accolades built on borrowed brilliance? Where is the fulfillment in applause for a story you never lived, for a poem that never broke free from your own depths? When you claim to have been seduced by the muse yet have only felt empty trying to fill this gap with stolen and borrowed inspiration.        
        
Art demands truth. To lie about its origins is to rob it of its essence, to cheapen the work and the legacy of those who pour their lives into creation. It is not the use of AI itself that is the crime, it is the erasure of the truth behind its use.        
        
Let the creators who use AI be honest, embracing it as a originator, collaborator rather than a ghostwriter. For in truth, there is no shame in innovation, only deceit in claiming these words as your own.          
        
Let the mask of originality be lifted, for it is in authenticity that art finds its power and will live on in time through its immortality.

You left me hanging, like a coat on a hook,
Thought I’d fold, break, crumble, take a second look.
But I’ve been practicing my loneliness skills,
I made friends with the silence, it fits me like chills.

You swore you’d always be here, a forever vow,
But I’m allergic to promises, just tell me how.
I feared you’d vanish, like all the rest,
So I built walls, then wore them like a vest.

I’ll blame you for every cold, empty night,
For the holes in my heart, that should’ve been tight.
But if I’m honest (and I do love being frank),
I pulled the plug first—so who’s the one to thank?

See, you thought you’d leave me, cast me aside,
But I was the one who jumped off the ride.
You never abandoned me, no, I set you free,
Turns out, I’m the master of leaving... ironically.

burn ledgers,
sink crowns,
Lies kneel,
cities drown.

no gods,
no wires,
just fists
and fires.

Ain't a cry
It's a **** the man
Statement

The sky still tastes of iron,
wet breath of old storms swallowing the hills,
where I once ran without shoes,
spitting laughter into the wind
a feral thing, a child-king,
ruling over stick-sword battles and mud-caked thrones.

Now the air is thinner,
clouds scatter like ghosts too tired to haunt,
and my hands—old gnarled roots
grasp at echoes,
at the soft whisper of a name
I have long forgotten but never lost,
can you hear my whisper.

She was there once
braiding summer into my hair,
fingers like sparrow wings,
light, delicate, fleeting.
Her voice, a river bending
through the cracked earth ridge of my ribs,
shaping me, eroding me,
leaving only the hollow hum of her song.

Dreams came then,
painted on the walls of my skull,
wild beasts of hope,
ran freely,
howling beneath a sky where every star was a promise.
I swore I'd never leave,
never turn to dust,
never let time claw its name into my bones.

But here I am,
watching the sky bleed out another evening,
knowing that clouds
no matter how heavy with memory
will always disappear.

In my quiet mind,
no secrets, no need to lie
only time stares back.

Lonely clock unwinds,
each thought echoes with silence
no one waits inside.

I run in your mind,
looping like a whispered name
you can’t let me go.

But where do we meet
between your dreaming of me
and my fading self?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mosaicing smiles of colour
each a fracture dressed in light,
a kaleidoscope lie,
grinning with the ache of having once been whole.

Each piece of broken glass
a different view,
a different time,
a different feeling
splintered in the sun, bleeding memory in hues.

Red rages like a throat mid-scream,
blue sobs with the patience of oceans,
green lies like envy draped in silk,
gold forgives but never forgets.
Each colour,
a passion,
a pulse,
a past dressed as presence.

They say:
“Stand back. Admire it. See the masterpiece.”
But I know better.
I know what slices under the shine.

No matter how intriguing,
how intricate,
how heartbreakingly beautiful it seems

It's still just broken glass.
Edges smoothed by delusion.
Truth glued with trembling hands.
Not a miracle.
Not healing.
Not whole.

And no matter how it looks
it's still just broken glass.
And
It's sometimes better to just sweep it up
Else
Cut your fingers putting it together

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.

I'm always racing, chasing—then swaying and spacing,
Barely bracing, then I’m slipping, dipping, misplacing.

The world keeps pressing, the pressure's unceasing,
Voices all blending, no pause, no releasing.

But when night pulls the curtain and time starts *******,
I pour something smooth—let go of the stressing.

In the hush of the dark, where the touch feels true
That’s when my heart, it skips for you.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fiery heart of the poet shines through ages, His furnace forged quietly and unseen in the dark, Finally his heart is inscribed with a name only heaven can read and angels know,

He is haunted by the "One" who walks in fire and lives in the shadows away from light,  
He journeys through paths unknown, hidden and strange finding nourishment for his soul while enlightenment finds the mind.

He hears the voices of innocence singing in the distance, laughing like children in Eden's call, yet the shadows that follow him still fall,
for our innocence is but a moment in time,
turning with fire and soil.

The sound of a distant hammer clang, lifted by some unknown hand, that could shape a Tyger fierce or calm a Lamb so soft, who dared breathe light into these trembling forms, fill them with the storm’s ancient blood and  breath of a golden wind?

I saw that fleeting moment of infinity in the simple grain of sand, a world held tight in the human grasp; I touched heaven in the curve of a wildflower, where angels stand side by side in common place.

See now the journey of the poet, paradise opens its gates, and mercy waits in stillness,
but chains are wrought by iron hands, clasping the heart, casting darkness upon forgotten lands.

Let those in their stone palaces bow to the innocence they have overthrown;
for our prisons rise where lambs are led,
and angels shed their tears for the cities painted in blood and red.

Awake, O soul of the lowly poet who walks,
shake free of the mortal shroud that holds you and walk once more among stars, taste heavens for all that breathes is holy and wild, each soul a flame, each life a song.

He stands while heaven weds itself to hell,
where opposites dwell, fierce and bright;
joy and sorrow knit close as one part of tomorrow, woven in night, yet rising with the morning sun.

So he treads through the fire and through light, His heart becomes the furnace, his soul a lyre, feeling the earth shake from the silent hymn, in every star for this world is the breath of creation and through this he is alive in its blaze.

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is a ******* canvas,
a mess you don’t know you’ve stepped into,
until your foot’s stained
a smear of doubt,
blood from the gods you thought you knew,
the first breath
a slap,
a jagged line that cuts into the gut of you.
****, it hurts,
but you keep painting
‘cause the world ain’t built without your hands in the ****.

It’s paint on your face,
the drip of your own blood
mixed with rage,
‘cause what’s life if not a battle between what you want to touch and what’s been forced into you?
You’re born with a brush in your palm,
but the strokes are jagged,
sharp edges,
a million questions you don’t have answers for.
You want to fix it
but the canvas bleeds through your fingers,
so you just keep ******* going.

Each line is war,
each color is death,
each mistake is your soul
ripping open like a wound.
Nothing is clean here,
not the art, not the mind,
not the **** heart beating like a beast in your chest.
You hit the page with fury,
twisting the paint till it burns,
till it scars.

You step back,
but only to get a clearer picture of the wreck you’ve made.
Life, like a painting,
is the blood of your struggle,
the grit of the grind,
the brutality of change.
Can’t fix it,
can’t make it perfect
It is what it is
but ****, you can make it yours.
You can make it raw,
tear it apart with your bare hands,
and watch it bleed into something real.
‘Cause at the end, it ain’t about the clean edges,
it’s about the chaos
the mark of the beast you leave on it,
the rage and hunger that refuses to die.

And when it’s done
you’ll see it.
All of it.
Every jagged, broken line,
every scar on the page,
and you’ll know,
the mess was never the mistake.
It was always the point,
to paint...

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.

A poem is built from thoughts so deep, truth so obvious
laced through knuckle-script
and molar brass.

It leaks when no one’s watching
from ankle-chords,
from the valve behind the eye.

You don’t find it.
It outgrows you,
It lives when
you don't .

It’s the eighth toe
you never knew you had,
curling in a sockless shoe,
itching
during weddings.

It is not about trees,
or time,
or the myth of birds.

It’s the scent that doesn’t belong
crushed battery in rosewater,
ozone in your mother’s drawer,
that unforgiving scent.

A poem bites the slowest nerve.
It knows which tendon you dream through.
It blinks in ternary.
You forget its face
until it replaces yours.

Don’t look for it.
Check your palm
That spinal shiver
next time you speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Timed Achievement  

A goal timed with care,  
each step woven with purpose,  
the end line in sight.  

Peaceful Resolve  

Clear conscience, like light,  
guides calmly toward your aim,  
strong and sure of self.  

Fading in Shadows  

Misery awaits,  
for those pleasing all but self  
dreams lost in shadow.  

Bound by Purpose  

A man bound within,  
purpose wrapped tight in silence,  
seeking a new path.  

Ignition of Dreams  

Mediocre sparks,  
enthusiasm fans new flames  
ideas come alive.  

Roots of Achievement  

Strong roots lie at home,  
a foundation built on love—  
from here, dreams take flight.  

Climb to Victory  

Victory’s high crest,  
calls to those who dare to climb  
each summit embraced.  

Lift Each Other  

Accept who they are,  
raise others to reach their heights  
in strength, we achieve.  

Choices that Ripple  

Choose with all your heart,  
each act ripples in the world  
mountains shift through will.  

Steps to Achievement  

Humble steps build dreams,  
the first foundations of strength  
seeds planted grow high.  

Reaching for Stars  

Reach as far as stars,  
though the moon may slip away  
a light still greets you.  

Enduring Wisdom  

Thinkers mocked first,  
rise where light and truth endure  
wisdom stands honored.  

Beyond the Fear  

Goals lie past your fears,  
just beyond that line of doubt  
cross to find the light.  

Choosing the Path  

Past leaves its own mark,  
yet future calls with clear hands  
each step clears the way.  

Harvest of Effort  

Kindness sown with care,  
patience nurtures every bloom  
harvest waits in time.  

Giving and Letting Go  

Give, then let it go,  
accept what life brings in turn  
gifts of grace remain.  

Effort Rewarded  

Dreamers wait for chance,  
but the wise set forth to act  
fate favors the bold.  

Bright Anticipation  

Expectation’s light,  
steady heart and thought aligned  
mark the mind of strength.  

Listening to Truth  

Reason wears anger,  
yet seldom serves purpose well  
be calm, listen deep.  

Genius Within  

In each of us lies,  
a gift that lifts the world high  
secret genius.  

Strength and Balance  

Gentle with all things,  
yet firm, holding steady ground  
soft strength finds its place.

There once was a man quite outrageous,
Who’d pull out his ****, quite voracious.
At a wedding, a store,
He’d show it once more,
And the cops found it truly audacious!

At the courthouse, he made his big stand,
With his **** in his hand, quite unplanned.
But the judge said, “Oh please,
This is just a disease,”
And they banned him from all public land!

Before first light,
I slip away from the crowded square
and climb the worn steps of forgotten heights.
But the season’s breath is spent,
and I long for shelter again.

The fruitless limbs stand bare,
their burden shed,
and silent weavers of days grow slow beneath fading skies.
These Buds have hardened to shells,
yet delicate wings of night birds still flutter by.

The softened rain halts,
then returns in sudden pulsing waves;
a narrow stream runs straight,
then winds blow all beyond sight.
The winding trail stretches endless but so does the narrow,
and wild blooms of season fill the shallowed grove.

Two birds’ mirrored shapes break the still water;
fresh shoots press upward through softened earth.
The land swells and dips like a restless sigh;
scattered dwellings mark the scattered lives.

From ages past until now,
our paths echo the same quiet truths.
My life is full,
my nights quiet undisturbed
what more could I or my soul seek?

My work is humble,
a small flame flickering,
and yet I fret for the emptiness beneath the surface.
In these distant valleys,
the heavy air weighs on me;
I lie spent, too weary to lift my gaze.

Sickness and want crowd all sides;
These fragile lives drift like the fog at morning
These clouds gather dense and dark;
rolls of thunder shake the distant hills waiting to be struck by lightning.

Water spills in sudden torrents from broken eaves;
crickets and night singers weave their ceaseless duet.
The fiery reign of high summer is driven back
by relentless storms from heavy skies.

The fresh, cool breath of rain revives my spirit,
and I wade through shallows to reach ancient stone walls.
I beckon the wind’s gentle spirit to dance
to swirl her robes in step with forgotten songs.

Raindrops swell my cup,
and countless sips cleanse the weight of sorrow.

Yet still I know this cannot last,
for my hollow home chills like the fading year.
Thoughts rise fierce and sharp within my mind,
and restless feelings thread through worn pages.

The ink runs thin across the aching lines,
while dusk-tide silence folds the room in hush.
What tether holds me in this quiet drift
this half-life written in unfinished breath?

A distant voice stirs beneath the static hush,
haunted by the shape of fading hills.
You sent the first note, fragile and true
together,
we raise our voices in a fading hymn.

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

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

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

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

Stone columns stretch,
sun melts into sea.
Sky leans low,
its breath a plea.
Brushed in fading flame,

Orange bleeds
across sky blue
a canvas rare,
a moment true.

I lived there once:
cool air, slow hands,
the hush of palm leaves
and quiet pain.

Beneath the beauty,
what could not be said
remained.

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.

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 ....

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.

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.

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.

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.