Do not trust the tongue
it bends like smoke.
Trust the hand,
for it carves truth into stone.

I seek no shrine of crumbling skin.  
The murmuring earth is not divine.  

My faith ascends where stars reside,  
Above the marrow, beyond the tide.  

Knees fold not to what decays,  
But to eternal, light-gilded rays.

Time taught me
Never leash dogs for my battles.
Their teeth may bite,
but not with my honor.

Better to bleed alone,
and lose the fight clean,
than win by another’s growl.

He heard the stones weeping
and asked them what hurt.
I could only break,
crying for their condition,
crying for mine.

Something precious
slipped from a young man’s hands,
and from mine as well.
Hope left quietly,
safety folded its wings.
In dreams I cross time
like a shadow leaping
each leap uncertain.

O dove,
your low moan
mirrors my own.
I think of the beloved ones
who drift like smoke.
What did you lose,
little bird,
to sing like that?
You melt me
even as I am already melting.

Life
the best of it
is a dream that flees
the moment we reach.

I call to the dream
and it will not listen,
will not still itself.

It shames me to confess confusion,
to whisper that my soul-mate
has gone.
From a thousand eyes
I chose one
and it killed me
with its gaze.

Like you, dove,
I moan in color and scent,
my grief a shape in the air.
Love’s arrow
does not miss.

I call again
but the dream
does not turn its head.
And I am still melting.

Grief roots deep, a shadowed seed,  
Through storms of pain, the heart is freed. Tears as rain, the soil does drink, In sorrow’s depths, new stars will blink.  

An open heart learns wisdom’s art,  
Where wounds once burned, love can start. From broken ground, compassion grows, The garden blooms where loss bestows.

Leave behind gold's cold, silent halls.  
Step where ruin breathes, yet calls.  
Palaces gleam, but shadows lie,  
Glory whispers where dreams won not die.  

Humiliation builds its gilded cage,  
Glory dwells in timeworn stage.  
Ruins may crack, yet hearts ignite,  
Choose the truth, not gilded night.

Why do women act
as if pain belongs only to them?
As if heartbreak is their private wound,
their exclusive crown of thorns?
History is heavy with men’s bones,
men who howled when love was torn from them,
men who carried silence like a coffin,
men who shattered and no one wrote their names.
Love is no saint
it is a blind sword swinging wild,
splitting hearts without mercy,
and it does not stop to ask
if the blood is woman’s or man’s.
Pain has no gender.
Loss knows no favourite.
And love betrays us all.