Stately, headless form,
profound with life, she endures—
stone defies time's hand.

Pregnant with the stars,
prosperity flows through her,
silent, yet so vast.

Temple's sacred core,
sea and stars weave her wisdom—
eternal she stands.

snow fur stained with red,

white wolves feast beneath cold stars—

life from death renewed.

grimy feathers stir,
children's laughter feeds the flock—
crumbs on tiny palms.

golden sun sinks low,

silhouettes of trees stand still,

reflections shimmer.

Would you still love me if the night spoke my sin,

if the ash of my mistake clung to our bodies,

if the wind carried whispers of my guilt

and our skin bore the scent of shattered stars—

would your hands still gather me from the void?

Beneath the moon’s cold, watchful eye,
A tree stands silent, wounds run deep.
Its bark is scarred; its sap won’t dry,
For every name, it’s bound to keep,
A curse etched there for souls to weep.

The lovers carved with thoughtless blade,
A fleeting vow, a whispered kiss.
Now shadows dance where dreams once played,
And roots ache for a simpler bliss,
While haunted whispers twist and hiss.

Its leaves grow heavy, dark with grief,
Each scar a wound that will not fade.
No time nor sun brings it relief,
For memories cruelly invade,
And turn its strength to ghostly shade.

Yet still it stands, though bent and worn,
A bleeding shrine to fleeting youth.
Its rings hold tales of hearts forlorn,
Each scar a fragment of the truth,
A silent ode to love’s unsooth.

Oh, bleeding tree, what stories keep?
What specters linger in your boughs?
Do ghosts of lovers dream or weep,
While nature kneels in solemn vows?
Your endless scars, their endless plows.

Not all is alright,

but still I hold through the storm,

my heart beats steady,

a fragile but fierce ember—

I will not be lost today.

The child moves,
blindfolded,
stumbling through the trembling air,
Hands grazing the rough bark of trees, the cool breath of stone.
Laughter rises, thin as thread, spinning through the dark—
A thread they cannot follow,
only pull,
only pull,
Until the world dissolves,
and home is only a memory of warmth.

Cluttered table speaks,
tokens of a life lived loud,
calm in chaos found.

Cups of coffee cold,
wine glasses stained by night's touch,
ashtrays hold secrets.

Paint smears on paper,
incense curling through the air,
cameras frozen time.

Books and tickets stacked,
recipes lost in the mess,
pills stillness provide.

He hates the chaos,
but these remnants hold my world,
quiet battles fought.

Perched between
two worlds,
Free bird on the
barbed wire sings—
Prison walls echo,
Freedom whispers
through the breeze,
Yet the sting of steel
remains.

When the voice rises,
sharp and serrated,
I am cast backward—
a child again,
small as a thumbprint.

The air thickens,
pressing against my chest,
stealing my breath
in shallow gulps.

I cannot find words—
they scatter like frightened birds,
trapped in the cage of my throat.
Every syllable burns,
a potential betrayal.

The slap is phantom,
but real enough to sting.
Misunderstanding hangs,
a shadow over my skin,
waiting to pounce.

My limbs fold inward—
knees to chest,
arms to ribs.
The walls creep closer,
a conspiratorial hush,
a sudden need to vanish.

I long to run,
to dissolve into the cracks,
to silence the echoes
that still call me weak,
that still call me wrong.

dandelion clock,
whispers dreams into the breeze,
wishes take their flight.

My demons cling to me,
not as enemies,
but as forgotten children,
whispering the secrets of my soul.
They are the aftertaste of desire,
the bittersweet echo of childhood,
when freedom was as vast
as the evening sea,
and fear was a stranger.

I float now, unmoored,
my eyes closed to the world,
my heart open to the infinite.
The universe wraps me
in its eternal embrace,
its love slow and deep,
its regret soft as a mourning dove.
I am made whole by its sorrow,
and undone by its knowing.

For I am two—always two.
One walks in light,
the other dances in shadow.
Together, they burn,
the fire of madness consuming
what grace remains.
I cannot turn from this duality,
for it is the blood in my veins,
the breath in my lungs.

And yet, you stand before me,
a man with the patience of the stars,
the wisdom of the eternal.
You see me, whole and broken,
the storm and the stillness.
Your love is not afraid of my chaos,
for you have made peace with the fire.

You hold me as the sea holds the shore—
gently, fiercely,
with a love that neither takes
nor demands,
but simply is.
In your arms, I am no longer two,
but one—
whole, infinite,
and free.

No more lullaby,

the night hums a quiet tune—

age steals its sweet song.

blade meets silver scales,
flesh protests with fleeting thrash—
life yields to the sea.

plastic wraps the gills,
airless world beneath the waves—
drowning without fight.

carried far away,
a graveyard of shining fins—
nature's quiet plea.

Ave Maria rings,

soft at dusk, the sky blushes,

hearts lift with the stars.

Beneath the weight of the moment,
fractured seconds linger like echoes,
etched into the hollows of my mind.
Most things dissolve,
consumed by the hungry tides of forgetting,
but not this—
not the way you made me feel.

Small.
Insignificant.
The air stolen from my lungs
as life unraveled, thread by thread.
I lay there,
the world shrinking,
your gaze an avalanche,
your silence a knife.

It wasn’t the darkness that stayed—
it was the sharpness of being
discarded, diminished, erased.

I will not forget.
The universe has ways
of balancing its scales.
And when it does,
may you feel what I felt—
every fragment of it.

fat red berries cling,
snow breathes white upon their glow,
winter's quiet fire.

He eats at my soul with a lover's slow hand,

Each bite a hymn, each wound carefully planned.

His silence, a gospel, his shadow a prayer,

I light every candle, but he's always there.

A feast in the dark where no one can stand.

Everything bleached—
the words, the memory of words,
the tongue flattened beneath the weight
of what must not be spoken. A surrender
of sound, a silence that tastes like salt
pressed into a wound
you forgot to name.

Here—
the iodine threads through the dirt—
it burns its way backward,
into a childhood—
is it mine? I do not know—
that never grew
out of its scabs, that curled itself
into a tight fist
of unhealed skin.

The razors, though—
they moved like swifts, like
unseen birds
cutting through the air
too fast to stop—
their kisses, their strange
geometry of ruin.

And the grown-ups, their words—
or were they storms?
or the echo of gods?—
"You must obey, or vanish.
You must obey, or
learn to die of shame."
And so—
the body folds itself inward,
like paper, like
a breath no one will miss.

Do you feel it?
The guilt—
its slender fingers
tightening, as if around
the throat of a world.
The shame—its small
knife-point etching
names you did not choose
into the chest.
The way the chest carries it—
silent, but
with the weight of centuries.

"Tell the story," they said.
"Make it better.
Make it sing." But
their mouths are full
of echo, their threats
like waves breaking
against a cliff you can’t stop
dreaming of.

I want to write the dirt.
The cuts.
The razors in their perfect arcs.
I want to write the gods
that were not gods, the voices
that were not mine.
The grace—
noose-like, tightening—
but not the gilded lie
of endings.

Instead, a fire:
its single purpose,
its clear burning.
Not to erase, but to
scar. To carve me
out of this
bleached photograph, this
ghost-sky still
blistering my hands.

Let it end in the crackle of ash,
the body emerging—
not whole, but here,
a scarred brightness walking
into the unfinished dawn.

Rich port on our lips,
the sea hums a low love song,
stars begin to dance.

Clothes fall to the sand,
bare skin kissed by moonlit waves,
the night pulls us in.

Deeper we both sink,
inky sea wraps us in silk,
love drifts with the tide.

Drooping beneath the weighty rain—
Each drop—a Lover's Touch—
A Whisper, or a Revelation—
Too vast to clutch—too much—

The World—a stark and shaded pane—
Of Purity—and Loss—
Its Wounds concealed—yet bleeding still—
A mournful, shrouded Cross—

She trails her Veil—a Soggy Script—
A Tale without a Start—
The Clouds, the Trees, the Voice of Night—
Have vanished from the Heart—

The Door is locked—the Key—unknown—
The Anguish—hidden—deep—
The Knife—the Gravity of Breath—
The Taste—before we Sleep—

A Child—with Anklets—Bone and Bead—
A Mother—shamed—ensnared—
Their Hopes—a Candle, flickering faint—
Yet—Silence leaves them Scared—

The Soul absorbs the Mystic Fog—
A Lie—within its Clay—
The Veins of Time—wither and fray—
And Breath—expires—away—

For it was not anger but sorrow—
At the Abandonment—laid bare—
The dandelion—blown to pieces—
Wishes scattered—everywhere.

She could hear their Thoughts—their Fears—
A chorus—soft—yet sharp—
She wished to hide inside herself—
A hollow—without a harp.

Self-medication’s quiet needle—
Addiction’s velvet glove—
She yearned for Home—but found illusion—
A mirage—far from Love.

She stared into the blank horizon—
Falling—farther still—
A call for asylum—ghostly scribes—
No cure for her ill will.

They stopped questioning the Overdose—
What happens—must occur—
We take precautions—but in the end—
The void—we will still endure.

He lied—his promises dissolving—
No Trust resides in Truth—
Sabotaged—her fragile Being—
An existence—gone uncouth.

The grace of a lone sparrow falters—
Circles—spiraling near—
Yet never reaching—centers hollow—

It begins with a whisper,
soft as feathers brushing bone,
a murmur threaded with sweet venom:
You’re too much, you know that?
He says it like love, like it’s kindness
to clip the wings he gave me.

I laugh,
because that’s what you do when
someone you trust steps on your shadow,
calling it a game.
I laugh,
because his smile holds me hostage,
because my silence has become
the price of his calm.

And then it grows,
the laughter sharpens into teeth.
Each word dressed in humor
but hiding the sting.
You’re insane.
He says it with his eyes locked on mine,
searching for the fracture.
You believe anything, don’t you? Idiot.
And the room becomes smaller
as the air folds itself into shame.

I once thought trust
was a ribbon we tied between us,
a thread unbroken.
But he pulls it taut
only to watch me stumble,
to laugh as it frays
beneath the weight of his lies.

I was naive—
yes, that’s true—
to think love was a place of safety,
to believe his words were mine to hold.
But now, his laughter
hangs heavy in the corners,
and I wonder:
when did the joke become me?

It isn’t love
when your softness becomes his sport,
when he laughs at the tender parts
and calls it play.
It isn’t love
to twist innocence into a punchline
and leave the room echoing
with your shame.

But still,
he grins like the sun,
and for a moment,
I almost believe
it’s all in my head.

He gorges on my mistakes, a swollen moon,

pale and taut with the salt of my guilt.

Each night, he leans close, his breath like frost,

presses a kiss to my brow, cold as bone,

and whispers forgiveness I cannot believe.

The way he undresses,
day's weight
s
l
i
d
i
n
g
off his skin,
bare and unburdened,
each fold whispers freedom's touch,
heat stirs deep,
a quiet flame.

Oh, if I could command the waves,

Bid them hush, their wild tongues stilled,

I would pave a tranquil path, a mirror of longing, for your return.

Ready to shock unconscious—
a scream locked in my chest,
a storm swirling where love should have been.
Forsaken.
Forgotten.
Black wings fold tight against my eyes,
dragging me to the place
where breath turns to silence,
and hearts go to break.

If you had an inkling,
even the faintest whisper
that I existed,
why didn’t you look for me?
Why didn’t you fight the tide,
pull me from the hollow space
where I learned to disappear?

Why was I the one who searched,
who fought,
embarrassing myself
for your love?
I stood in the open,
raw,
bleeding,
hands stretched toward a ghost
that never turned back.

I wasn’t a black hole,
wasn’t an absence.
I was flesh,
I was blood,
I was here.

Maybe we could have danced in the light,
or I could have played tag
with your sons in the long grass.
But instead,
I became the shadow
you refused to see.

And now that it’s all been said and done,
the bitter truth cuts deeper—
it turns out
I’m the one who resembles you the most.

Half my life
I wandered,
seeking a name
that could fit into my chest.
Yours.
Mine.
Ours.

But you never came.
The silence stayed.
And black wings
are all that’s left to hold me.