May carry truth or deception,
but silence alone keeps the truth untouched
The truth is untouched.

Eyes meet, shadows speak,  
questions coil in tender air,  
truth hides, sharp, unknown.  
Our silence—both wound and balm,  
bridging what we fear to say.

Stop and hold your breath, rewrite longing on my chest, dreams carved in stillness.

You, the ink, my final draft
a script where love writes itself.

We met at the chambers
at the chambers, at the chambers,
where crystal holds fire,
where golden drink forgets the hour.

We spoke in riddles,
we spoke in circles,
of law and of madness,
of prophecy dressed as love.

We agreed not to agree,
we agreed not to agree,
and our pride rose high,
like twin banners in the hush of night.

Wine loosened the floor,
wine loosened the floor,
and tipsy, tipsy,
we danced as if bound by a spell.

Then your voice became flame,
flame upon flame,
and you begged me
touch, touch,
turn the secret page,
scroll the hidden script of your soul.

I answered, Madam,
listen, listen,

I am the witch’s son.
My sins are shadows,
only shadows,
that breathe against your spirit,
that whisper, whisper,
to awaken your fire.

They rise, they kindle,
they bend you toward blaze,
and when your heart burns too brightly,
I quench, I quench
as the blacksmith quenches steel
in the midnight water.

So I am done,
done, done.
And you
undone,
undone,
forever in the spell.

I said, "See you next time."
And the next time came.

She sat far away
with a drink in her hand.

"I hate cheese," she said.

Fifty-five, a weathered soul, adrift,
No hearth to warm, no loving gift.
A silent ache, a lonely sigh,
Where gentle hands once warmed the eye.

Thirty-five years, a fleeting dream,
Of hopes and joys, a whispered gleam.
A family's promise, softly spun,
Now scattered fragments, lost, undone.

The windswept past, a whispered plea,
Passengers gone, eternally.
A life's ambition, now a tear,
A barren landscape, filled with fear.

The warmth of love, a distant star,
A vacant chair, a silent scar.
The hands that built, now cold and bare,
A weary heart, beyond compare.

No comforting embrace, no loving hand,
Just echoes of a life unplanned.
A journey's end, a silent plea,
For solace found, eternally.

A whisper soft, a glance so bright,
"You're beautiful," a fleeting light.
Each girl delights in such a sound,
A fleeting praise, on hallowed ground.

But deeper still, a woman yearns,
Beyond the words, the praise that burns.
Not just the blush, the whispered grace,
But a true love, a steadfast space.

For beauty fades, the bloom will cease,
And fleeting words, like summer's breeze.
A love that's lived, a heart's embrace,
A truth that lingers, time and space.

She seeks not just a fleeting sight,
But a love that burns both day and night.
A bond that's strong, a soul's true art,
A love that's lived, within the heart.

The spoken word, though sweet and fine,
Cannot compare, to love entwined.
A truth that lingers, deep and true,
A love that's lived, for me and you.

Joy's a cunning, whispered charm,
A flicker bright, a vibrant arm.
Sadness, too, a subtle art,
A tapestry of aching heart.

The sea, it recedes, a whispered sigh,
Yet echoes linger, deep and nigh.
Present still, though gone from sight,
A phantom's grace, a moonlit night.

And in this gloom, a sunlit spark,
My spirit dances, though in dark.
Sadness's shadow, soft and deep,
Cannot steal the joy I keep.

The eyes, they slumber, still and meek,
No tears descend, no words they speak.
My sorrow's trace, a fading hue,
A whispered promise, me and you.

The heart, it beats, a steady drum,
Though whispers soft, the silence come.
A quiet strength, a whispered plea,
To find the light, eternally.