Do not be sad
For fate is inevitable,
What’s destined will find its way.
The pens have dried,
The pages have been folded,
And every matter has already been settled.
So your sorrow changes nothing
It neither hastens nor delays,
Neither adds nor takes away.

My granddaughter and me
the best artists to ever be!
We make, we write, we draw wild things,
So strange and bold, with scribbled wings.
We paint the sun with purple glue,
And give the moon a mohawk too.
We turn the clouds into mashed potatoes,
And make giraffes wear sweet pink halos.
You might look once and raise your brow,
“Is that a dragon... or a cow?”
But we just laugh and say with glee:
“You don’t see it? That’s on you, not me!”
We’re the best and no need to boast
Of silliness, we make the most.
So when you see our crazy art,
Know it's made with love and heart.

Not by rules or timelines,
not by others' silence or advice.
I will carry this grief as I must
slowly, fiercely, or quietly
but always in my own truth.

She said, “My dear, I want you
Come taste the honey that drips from my mouth.”
“Take it slow,” she begged, “but hurry
I’ve waited long enough.”
“Just so you know,” she whispered low,
“I’m the only daughter of my father and mother
The mint that grows along our orchard fence,
Shaded by banana leaves from prying eyes.”
“In the game of love, I was Napoleon
But now my carriage has stalled.
Even the banded wheels won’t move.”
I filed a complaint with the Mayor.
He sighed and said:
“Your case is adjourned—until the end of time.”
The mint of music rested on her lap.
I asked her name.
She smiled and said,
“It’s written in the clouds above your head.”
I looked up and saw: Blue Sky.
Her hands were kissed by henna,
Six golden bangles danced at her wrists
A shimmer of wealth and mystery.
I said, “Yes… yes… and yeah.
You are green as spring,
Yet burn with the fire of the devil.”
Innocence and seduction
All wrapped in one.
A beautiful teen,
The chaos of heaven in a single form.
Yes, I would love to taste your lips...

Scars of Light
My body is full of cuts and scars,
A statement written in quiet lines
Each wound a whisper from battles past,
A language of pain that never lies.
They said, “The wound is where the light breaks through,”
Then I should be glowing, shouldn’t I?
But some nights, even stars seem bruised,
And hope feels like a well run dry.
I walk like driftwood lost at sea,
No anchor, no wind to carry me.
Steps unstable, breath unsure
I’m chasing something that’s never pure.
My eyes, two windows to a fading spark,
Cannot find where the light ends or starts.
It flickers in dreams I barely hold,
A warmth remembered, now turned cold.
Yet still…
In the silence between every ache,
A softer voice begins to wake.
It hums beneath the weight of scars,
Like moonlight bleeding through prison bars.
Pain has been my cruelest friend,
But even sorrow must someday bend.
If I can breathe, then I can crawl
And if I crawl, I might still stand tall.
So let the wounds be open doors,
Not graves, but cracks that beg for more.
Let hope be stubborn, small, and slow,
A single seed in winter’s snow.
Yes, let it be…

Knowledge is power
My grandmother and father told me,
Knowledge is power.
What a masterpiece of comedy that was.
I believed them, like a fool with a library card.
Now I’m stuck with a brain full
of useless wisdom and a heart full of regret.
Even the doctor said,
‘Sorry, we don’t treat chronic belief in motivational slogans.’
So yeah… hats off to me.
Clown of the century. 🤡📚🤣

I slept beneath a murmuring tree,
the breath of wind like whispered song
when from the dusky thicket near
a dove broke forth in sorrowed tongue.
Its coo, a tremble made of light,
a flame of grief in feathered white,
did pierce the veil of slumber’s shroud
and stir my heart to waking loud.
O! Sweet-winged ghost of aching skies,
you summoned tears from sealed eyes,
and sang of loves I once had known,
and all the souls I’d called my own.
How far I’d strayed from spirit’s call,
how deep the hush, how slow the fall
but in your cry, celestial dove,
I heard again the voice of love.
So let me weep and wake anew,
beneath the sky’s immortal blue,
and bless the winds, the wings, the morn,
where grief and beauty are reborn.

I’m weary of your winds,
soft whispers that promise fire,
then vanish in the hush of “just friends.”

You speak like a lover in the moonlight,
then vanish at dawn with your walls drawn high.
Yet when I smile at another flame,
your silence burns louder than words.

What is this dance you lead me in?
One step forward, two steps back,
your heart a maze I cannot read.

Am I a passing breeze in your garden,
or a root you dare not let grow?

Speak, Lily
not in riddles, not in sighs.
Tell me where I stand in your sky,
before I drift too far to return.

Me

The poem is the pain of:
love and hate,
happenings and sorrows,
laughter and tears,
day and night,
again and again

Pain, in so many colors and shapes,
in whispers or screams,
in gentle aches or roaring storms

It is pain.
Yes, PAIN.
That ink, that pulse, that shadow in the verse
Always pain.

I Want to Stay Here
We went to see the Three Sisters
in the Blue Mountains
an iconic rock formation,
etched in stone by time
and by legend.
The old story tells:
three sisters turned to stone
to be saved from war,
frozen forever
by love and fear.
Nearby, where Norman Lindsay
dreamed his wild and wicked dreams,
the air still hums
with the laughter of ghosts,
and the soft madness of artists.
My grandchild,
with his small voice and wide heart,
was asked to come home.
He looked up and said,
"I want to stay here."
And my heart
my old, tired heart
heard him and answered too:
I want to stay here.
To feel the pleasures,
the madness,
the thrill
these mountains have lived and seen.
I wonder
how can a place bear so much
and still remain
green,
shining,
calm?
Yes.
I want to stay here too.

I said to her,
"I will betray you."

She smiled softly, like forgiveness,
but with devilish awareness
and whispered,
"Then let destruction be... beautiful."

I said,
"Teach me how do you fall?"

She said,
"Tango."

And we tangoed
like sinners in a church,
like wolves caressing silk that never sleeps.

A step... then a gasp.
A turn... then a scar.
Wound after wound,
until love forgot its name,
its features scattered between our feet.

And still, we danced
not out of love,
not out of regret,
but because the music never stopped.
Yet.

Wide-open spaces
There is no outside in this circle,
No edge to which ends can rest.
Everything in you
the street, the wine, the noise of shadows
speaks of you.
Do not be ashamed of joy.
Let it bare your heart like a baby in the rain.
Let it tremble for the trembling of a plum,
Or a sigh that escapes your lungs
Like an orphan angel.
Close the eye that sees,
And open the other that waits from beyond the light.
Kneel.
And do not fear breaking.
The cup in your hand
Is nothing but the illusion of fullness.
Let it fall.
Let it spill.
For the hunger you thought was a ****** call,
Was the return of an invitation
From you...to you.
No one emerges from the maze.
We only change the shape of the circle.
Forget what was lost.
Be what is given.
Be water when thirst is forgotten.
Why do you walk
in a cell without walls?
Listen...
There is music that cannot be heard.
A tune formed
from your fall.
So fall.
Fall some more.
For you are destined
to expand.
YES…

One morning,
I stood before the mirror
my losses etched across my face.
Staring back was someone who despised me.
How cruel self-loathing can be.
Some days, memory drags me
to my harshest hours
to an old love in an older heart,
to the moment my convictions shifted.
I never left people without reason,
yet I could never fill
the voids they left behind.
A wound, dealt by those I cherished,
taught me this:
those closest
are often the ones we most need to leave.
Only one truth remains
my reflection’s love endures.
But the love of others?
A myth I can no longer believe.
And what is the soul’s departure
if not an ending?
For death doesn’t always come in silence.
How many of the living
do I already treat
as if they’re gone?

Devil 👿

I met the devil.
She didn’t ask.
Just lit the pipe
and blew death into my lungs.

My veins caught fire.
My soul cracked open.
Everything changed.
Nothing mattered.

Time?
I spent it bleeding in heaven
and screaming in hell.

I fell into her arms like a drunk punch,
and crashed into a winter storm
naked, high, and laughing.

She was beautiful.
Ugly.
Perfect.
My sleep paralysis in flesh.

Yes
I ****** the devil.
She wore my guilt like perfume.

Ecstasy?
To you, it’s a word.
To me, it’s her body over mine,
nails in my back,
truth in her lies.

Yes
I slept with the devil 👿
And she never left.

My lady

I am not your slave, Nor bound to the wine I sip-But if I must surrender, Let it be to your lips, not the cup.

To My Red Pen
When did you grow so gentle?
You, once sharp with correction
Marking every stumble
A judge in crimson ink
Now you spill like sunlight
Waltzing across the page
Not to scold
But to sing
What the hell changed—and why?
I'm left wounded, wondering
When right began to feel so wrong?

Step into my heart
Step into my heart, my line,
Step deep inside and enter my soul in peace.
My wound is your wound,
My pulse is your pulse,
And the words, we speak to them the same.
The street of sorrows begins in me,
A wound awakening beneath my ribs.
And it ends there too,
When one day,
We can finally speak it aloud.
My line, my line and inside my heart,
Step in and enter my soul in peace.
These words yes, they are the same.
Oh, when I speak and you believe,
Believe in the truth and let it rise from your lips.
When I speak and you believe
The truth will find its sound.
From your right,
From your left,
From there, from here
Know me.
You will find me
The possible truth.
Hug me and hold me,
Throw me into the air
Draw me, colour me,
A bird released, flying free.
Oh, when we meet
Meet in the space between our words,
When we meet again,
Let it be on the words
That rise from our hearts.
Step into my heart
Step into my heart, my line…

How on earth I end up with you
a question I bury in silence,
where answers decay.
How did I spend thirty-five minutes
trading my peace
for your poisoned lullaby?

How many times I should have left,
but stayed
each time a bruise
on the soul I pretend is whole.
Each moment,
a thread unraveling my name.

Deep purple sleep
where I float, numb,
ends nightmare.
Not with rest,
but with forgetting.

Thank God
for the wicked wake
the jolt, the break,
the moment truth
slices through the dream.
At last,
I breathe
alone.
Alive.

Yet, perhaps the most haunting truth is:
Without a question, the answer is meaningless. But without an answer, the question becomes eternal.

Circle of knowledge 😜

"Love, in its truest form, is resilient
but even the strongest bond unravels
under the weight of three corrosive forces:
the habit of error,
the comfort of falsehood,
and the absence of understanding.
For it is not anger that ends love,
but the slow erosion of trust, truth, and empathy."

My cat is very angry with me.

I didn't buy the golden collar, just the silver one.

Stupid me.

I thought it wouldn't notice.

Silly me again.

Never get it right with Royalty.

I need no steel to make them yield.
My pen’s the sword, my truth the shield.
I conquer in silence, in stanzas and cries,
And write what no tyrant can shackle or buy.

He:
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know... maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We've started living from a lack of death, not from a desire to live.

She:
It's as if we're waiting for something to end us...
But even the ending keeps getting delayed, and the scene gets longer.

He:
Do you remember how we used to feel the pain? How we used to scream and find relief?
Now even the pain has become cold... as if we're forbidden from enjoying it.

She:
Not even crying over it.
We've started to stifle the pain, stifle the scream, and stifle life...
But we don't die.

He:
It's harder than death... to keep living, while nothing in your lives.

"The hardest fight is the one inside you."
Not the blade nor the beast,
not the curse in the woods,
but the voice that whispers
when all else is still.

The night is loud with silence,
and the mirror knows your name.
He carries his mother’s magic,
but it’s his shadow he cannot tame.

I am the Soloist — carved in grief and flame,
A voice made raw by loss, not praise or fame.
No light begot this song, no gentle hand,
Just silence breaking like a scorched command.
I sing of truths too bitter to confess,
Of love that rots, of hope grown motionless.
Each note I cast is torn from deepest bone
A cry that never leaves me quite alone.
I have not turned from art, though it has bled,
Nor has it spared me nights I begged it dead.
No comfort lies in melody or form,
Just shattered chords that echo through the storm.
I sing what others dare not even think
Of needles, war, and madness on the brink.
Of pleasure cursed, of kisses soaked in sin,
Of flesh that burned and begged to burn again.
Oh, night! You cloaked me when the daylight fled,
You know the names of all the songs I've bled.
When lovers died with silence in their throats,
I stole their breath and sang their final notes.
My voice has cracked for children wrapped in dust,
For countrymen betrayed by those they trust.
I sang while mothers wept in empty beds,
And kissed the flags draped over brothers' heads.
Still, I sing on—not noble, but possessed,
A mouthpiece for the ****** who know no rest.
Each verse I bear, a curse I must repeat
Truth set to rhythm, blood made bittersweet.
And still I sing… though each song is a wound.
And still I sing… though every joy is doomed.
And still I sing… while pieces of me die.
For silence is the only greater lie.

My friends hid their ******* magazines.
I hid my poetry,
my dog-eared philosophy books,
tucked behind jackets and empty lunchboxes.
They shared their pages
smirking,
pointing,
laughing.
I sat beside them,
nodded at the curves I couldn't feel,
while words burned holes in my chest.
We all spoke English.
But I never understood a word.
Not theirs.
Not mine.
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?
"****" and "Hell"
they stuck to my tongue,
became my Favorite prayers,
my rebel hymns,
my answerless questions.
Fifty-five years.
And nothing has changed.
Still hiding poems.
Still faking laughs.
Still wondering:
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?

The shadow of death is me,
or maybe I’m its shadow.
The angel showed me light
then whispered, “go back.”
In hell’s name,
can someone tell me why?
“Even though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,
for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”
I trust in God
in His presence, in His protection.
I long for rest.
For salvation.
For peace
in me,
and in the heart
of this world
still crying
for f**king peace.

When tyranny dons the robe of law,
Then rising up becomes the call.
For silence feeds the despot’s might,
And duty wakes in darkest night.
Bravery is not a lack of fear,
But holding it, and drawing near
A trembling hand, a steady soul,
That walks through fire to reach the goal.

We, the people of one face,
will not wear masks
not for peace,
not for praise,
not to be spared by silence.

We are carved from the same fire,
lit by a single flame of truth.
Let the wind howl,
let the crowds vanish,
let even love turn its back
still, we will not cover what is real.

If it costs us everyone,
so be it.
Better to walk alone in light
than march together in shadow.

Yes
that is us.
Unhidden.
Unashamed.
Unmasked.

These days, I cannot stop writing
words fall like rain,
endless, wild, cleansing.

Writing is my hobby,
my healing,
my hallelujah.

Hooray for my wicked pen,
my faithful pad
together, they save me.

Thank you, poetry.
Thank you.

Once, the word was a whisper
carved into a cave wall
by a man who saw lightning
and wanted to marry it.
He did not know grammar,
but he knew:
****.
It is the sound a soul makes
when it remembers it left the stove on
in a past life.
It is a sneeze of truth,
a hiccup of the cosmos,
a four-letter eclipse
of reason and restraint.
“****,” says the poet,
when words betray him.
“****,” says the scientist,
when atoms refuse to behave.
It is the punctuation of panic,
the jazz note in an otherwise silent scream,
the laugh-track of God.
It means everything
when you don’t mean anything,
and it means nothing
when you feel everything.
It is both
the crime
and the confession.
The knock, the door, the absence of door.
So how do you write it?
You don’t.
You exhale it through clenched teeth
as you fall in love with a mistake.
You etch it into the back of a napkin
after three whiskeys and a revelation.
You scream it into a pillow
until the pillow understands.
Then you kiss it.
And never speak of it again.

They asked him,
"How does one become a poet?"

He answered,
with the weight of stars in his voice:

"If you can read
the lines etched on your mother’s hands,
and the furrows folded between her eyes
then you are already a poet.

Go now
and savor the journey into madness."

Beneath the brick, a crumpled note
ink blurred by rain:
No ******* milk tomorrow.

Signed,
in silence.

You came without footsteps.
I did not hear the door
only felt you
arrive
beneath my ribs,
like smoke curling into a sealed jar.
I was praying,
but you were the breath I used to say your name.
Now I live
in a room without walls.
No ceiling, no floor
only your nearness,
pressing me open
from within.
I am not asking for paradise.
I am asking
for the warmth of your palm
on the small of my back
when I am weary of seeking.
I am asking
to lean into you
as a tree leans into wind it trusts.
Let the world do what it wants
let time collapse,
let stars fall into rivers
but let me keep
the wine of your presence
on my tongue
a moment longer.
There are days I am nothing but hunger.
Days I mistake your silence
for absence.
But then a bird lands on the windowsill
and it is you.
Then my spine tingles
for no reason
and it is you.
And when I weep without knowing why,
it is because you are
too close to name.
You are the touch I can’t return.
The kiss I give inward.
The home I carry
in the hollows of my being.

It hurts
like trying to hug a cloud
that owes you money.
You live in my heart
rent-free,
but my arms?
Evicted.
You are emotionally Airbnb
booked out,
but the photos were misleading.
Pain is elegant.
It wears a tuxedo to breakfast.
It sighs like a French poet
watching their croissant float down the Seine.
And elegance is everywhere
especially in the unseen.
Like your *******.
Yes, those
the hidden diplomats of heartbreak,
curled like sleeping cats
at the bottom of your laundry basket,
smelling faintly of rebellion and lavender-scented denial.
Keep them fresh.
Not for me
I’ve joined a monastery made of memes
but for the next poor soul
who mistakes your playlist for a spirit.
Let him be dazzled.
Let him be devoured.
Let him know, too late,
that lace is a trapdoor.

What Remains

Sometimes, it isn’t death that takes them
but something quieter, crueler.
We still see their face,
still hear their voice,
but the soul we loved has gone elsewhere.

No thunderclap of farewell,
just silence
where laughter used to live.
A dimming light,
a soft betrayal of warmth once constant.

They don’t vanish all at once.
They fall from us
in pieces.
A kindness gone here,
a tenderness gone there
until we’re holding a ghost
with a heartbeat.

We mourn them in secret,
while they walk beside us.
Not lost,
but no longer found.

And in the end,
what remains?
Only the name
echoing,
hollow
in the chambers of memory.

I want to taste the sweetness of your lips again
again, and again
'til sweetness turns to ache,
and ache becomes need.
Old wood is best to burn,
old wine to rot in the blood,
old friends to betray,
old books to whisper truths too heavy for the day.
But your lips
they are the darkest wine,
fermented in silence,
laced with lust,
dripping the sins saints dare not name.
Fill my cup.
Let me be drunk.
Let me forget the light.

**** Me With Your Beauty

Float your beauty,
your wild, aching sexiness
a storm in silk,
a sin wrapped in flesh.

**** me
with your pleasure,
with your wicked grace.
Burn me.
Don’t explain.
Don’t wait.

Just do it.
Undo me.
With what God gave you.

A glance,
a touch,
a breath that owns me.

**** me.
**** me
slowly,
completely
until I am nothing
but the echo
of your name.

I am not a poet.
I am only a wanderer in the marketplace of words,
a fool who follows the glimmer of syllables
as others follow the scent of bread.
Poetry is not ink on paper.
It is the pulse beneath the page
a breath moving through the hollow reed of the poet,
a secret that leans close to the ear of the heart.
When I meet a poem, I bow.
I circle it once,
then twice,
then again,
as though it were a shrine whose mystery
can never be entered in a single step.
Each reading strips away a veil.
Sometimes the veil is my own blindness,
sometimes the poet’s mercy in hiding the flame
until I am ready.
There are nights I leap from sleep crying, I have it!
and mornings when the truth laughs,
gently reminding me:
Child, that was only the shadow of the meaning
come back, and drink deeper.
Poetry is a journey without map or return.
It is the caravan of joy
that passes through my heart again and again.

And the fool said quietly:
Look at the man carrying the words of God,
and still, he has no idea how heavy they are.
He cared too much
more than his heart could hold.
It spilled over,
like a cup with no rim.
He pushed his soul
past what it was built to bear.
And over time,
his face changed.
People didn’t call him by the same name.
His words sounded strange
in places he used to belong.
His trust dried up
like grass under a burning sun.
His strength faded
like the last inch of candlelight before dawn.
Because everything has a limit
the stars in their paths,
a widow’s tears,
a man’s time,
even him.
Even me.

To “read” a painting is to listen with the eyes.
Begin with silence. Stand before it not as a judge, but as a guest and a stranger in a land of symbols and hues.
Describe what you see, as if describing a dream, you’re not sure you had: the colours, the lines, the tension, the flow. Is there chaos? Stillness? Invitation? Resistance?
Then ask the questions the paint does not answer:
Who made this, and when?
What storm or serenity shaped the artist’s hand?
What did the world look like when this pigment first touched canvas?
This is the visual pilgrimage:
from surface to structure, from brushstroke to breath.
You trace the grammar of form and the logic of light
how shadows fall, how space unfolds.
You seek the why beneath the what.
But to read a poem
Ah... to read a poem is to let it read you.
You bring all that you bring to painting attention, analysis, context.
But then you must offer something more:
your ache, your longing, your bruises, your silences.
You must bleed a little.
You must taste the honeyed poison of words too true to ignore.
Where a painting might say, “See me,”
a poem whispers, “Feel me and dare to be changed.”
In poetry, time distils.
A single line may carry a century.
A single word may resurrect a forgotten wound.
And so, the witch’s son says:
To read a painting is to walk through a doorway.
To read a poem is to fall through it, willingly
drunk on the sweet wine of beauty,
cut by the edge of truth.

We met on the sea’s edge,
where moonlight kissed the tide.
We danced through the salt-heavy night,
drank sweet wine as you spoke
of a million myriads
stars, souls, or stories, I never knew.

Tipsy, tipsy,
till the dawn broke us apart.
And then you were gone.

Sailor, where are you now?
Do you whisper my name to your myriads,
the way you once whispered theirs to me?

Who wrote to you that night,
when I wrote you into my heart?

Tonight, I raise a glass to the sea,
and to you,
wherever the tides have taken you.

Cheers 🥂

have a cup of coffee,
or play the fool for a while.

Either way,
you stay true to yourself and your knowing.
And that’s what really matters.

So stir your mood
like you stir your coffee
just the way you like it.

Enjoy.

Love in its fullness comes but twice: first, in the mirror of desire; second, in the ruin of illusion.

Pleasant to contemplate
Sweet,
Warm.
To share it,
or savor alone?
Maybe.
But more than likely,
a dream never to be realized.

My friend, take hence a letter to my dear,
Perchance he sees the weeping written clear.
Between the lines, let silent tears confess
A love that words alone could not express.

Tell him I’m lost, by longing overthrown,
My heart, from parting’s fire, is cracked to stone.
What good is distance? Shall we choose to part,
When all that’s good is living heart to heart?

I asked the night: “Have you not felt him near?
Did not his shadow stir your silence here?”
The night replied with tears upon his face:
“My patience, too, has waned in love’s embrace.”

The moon declared: “I basked in all you said,
But when you cease, my light itself is shed.”
O you who poured sweet love in every vein,
How shall I live in mask and cold refrain?

So when you reach him, let this message shine:
I am in love with his name is etched in mine.
My life was penned with hope and passion true,
And every breath I take still longs for you.

The wind passes by, as if it knows me well,
It brushes my cheek with a fleeting spell.
Then drifts away, as if to say:
"Be patient the dawn is not far away."
The world leans close and softly speaks,
Even the stones beneath my feet
Whisper, "You are not alone
You are remembered, though unknown."
I walk a line both thin and deep,
Between the waking and the sleep.
A call I hear, too faint to know,
Yet in my chest, it starts to grow.
My heart—it knows what I do not,
It carries truths I long forgot.
And when I place my hand with care,
It feels as if it's borrowed there.
A guest am I, in flesh confined,
This body hosts a wandering mind.
So kind it is, yet weary grown,
It longs to know when I’ll be gone.
I cherish now my speechless grace,
A silence full of sacred space—
A hush where other voices meet,
Where soul and silence gently speak.
Who hears this speech? Who truly sees
The quiet depths of silences like these?
One dawn, I dreamed a door of light—
It opened wide, and in its height
A voice said simply, "Go back now."
But I had not yet left, somehow.
I am both here and yet elsewhere,
A shadow cast from future air—
An echo not yet spoken true,
A presence split, in me and through.

When Silence Stays

A small, dimly lit room. Two chairs, facing slightly away from each other. A window stage-left lets in muted grey light. Dust particles float in the still air. No sound and just the low hum of existence.

He – Hollow, reflective, withdrawn.
She – Worn, quiet, still carrying embers of feeling beneath her restraint.

He sits with hands clasped, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.
She stands at the window, unmoving, her back to him.
SHE (softly)
You haven't said a word in hours.
HE
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know… maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We’ve stopped living out of desire…
Now we just exist from a lack of death.

SHE
(turns halfway toward him)
It’s as if we’re waiting for something…
Something to come and end us.
But even the ending keeps getting delayed.
The scene stretches on,
like a film that should’ve faded to black… but doesn’t.

HE
Do you remember how we used to feel pain?
Real pain, sharp, loud, alive?
We’d scream, and somehow the screaming helped.
Like the pain was real because it echoed.
Now even the pain has gone cold.
As if we’re forbidden from enjoying it.

SHE
Not even crying over it anymore.
(teeth clench subtly)
We’ve started to stifle the pain…
Stifle the scream…
Stifle life.
But we don’t die.

HE
(quietly, almost a whisper)
And that’s the curse, isn’t it?
It’s harder than death
to keep living,
while nothing in your lives.

She finally turns to him.
There is silence between them, not empty and but swollen, like a storm that never comes.

SHE
Do you think we’ll ever feel again?

HE
I don’t know.
Maybe we feel too much…
and this is what happens when the soul gets tired of carrying it.

SHE
Then maybe silence isn’t the absence of words…
It’s what’s left when life leaves.

A long pause.
Light fades slowly until the stage is only grey and still.

End Scene…

where the last coal of creation still glows.
If you reach in with moonlit fingers,
hunting for the soft vein of my weakness,
the fire will climb your veins
and crown your limbs in smoke.
Beloved
I told you: my heart is poetry,
and poetry is the heart of the witch’s son.
Do not wound it,
lest it choose the hour to wound you.
And when it does,
its betrayal will taste
like pomegranate in the dark
sweet, and red, and endless.

Oh devil,
play your crooked song.
My cup was born empty
not for lack,
but for the thrill of being filled
by hands unclean.
You danced,
not in shadows,
but in candlelight and clinking glass.
You sang not sorrow,
but sweet sugar lies
dipped in honeyed brass.
I did not fall.
I followed.
The path was perfumed,
the rhythm too rich to refuse.
Sin, in satin slippers.
Wickedness, with wine on its lips.
Yahoo for me
I did not burn.
I became the fire.
I outshone the flame.