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.

As if he had broken his promise
and slipped away,
as if eternity itself
had been a secret covenant between us.

“Ahmed, son of all,”
his mother whispered,
then folded her voice into silence
for silence was gentler
than the weight of evening.

O Houriya,
did you not see?
Today the country gathered its sorrow,
and from every house a cry rose
a child carried away,
a child returned to dust.

O She who rises from the womb of the sea,
crowned with foam and crowned with flame,
whose breath stirs the tides
and whose glance births blossoms from barren stone
Bearer of the golden girdle,
keeper of the wine of longing,
mother to the song that awakens the flesh,
and the dream that burns in the marrow.
Aphrodite, hear me.
Pour into my heart the wine of its desire,
and in the cup of that union,
let there be peace.

I dwell now at a nameless address
Where words no longer visit.
I no longer write
Nor do I wish to mesmerize.
Yesterday,
My home was your heart.
Now I echo through absence.
They say,
“’Tis better to have loved and lost…”
But they forget
Lost time
Is never found again.

The shoulders of your throne, so sit and cross yourselves.
Raise your head, above all earthly selves.
Pride shines bright upon your brow,
For humble hearts know little now.

This is my heart, I laid it down,
Upon the path of your renown.
If it should weep, or cry in pain,
Feel no sorrow, it will rise again.

Not pain it cries, but tenderness,
Beneath the feet that I confess,
Hold all my loyalty and grace.
I love the pride upon your face.

Advise me not to let it go,
Forbid such words, and watch it grow.
Each cell within me starts to hum,
When your approaching footsteps come.

Your walking here, an honored tread,
Deprive it not, or it is dead.
No mercy show to longing eyes,
A look, a smile, a subtle guise.

Walk onward, do not turn away,
For they will follow, come what may.
I fear for them, not for myself,
Your powerful steps, like precious wealth.

You are the Queen, so rule with might,
And take our loyalty as your right.
Without an army, you still reign,
Our hearts beseech you, ease our pain.

Torment us with your beauty's sting,
Know that denial deeper things.
Your judgment, fair or not, I crave,
Your sweet content is all I save.

Consult your heart, and only it,
Let love's own counsel be your wit.
The fairest roses bloom anew,
From every step you take, it's true.

Choose what you wish, a fragrant prize,
And give to me, before my eyes,
A single rose, however brief,
To cherish through my joy and grief.

The lover pampers, then withholds,
Demanding more than stories told.
My heart, in chains, I can't deny,
I call to him, he passes by.

And I amazed, my heart so strong,
Softens to him, although so wrong.
It endures, though free, it's true,
But it submits, only to you.

She says, "All men betray,"
a curse she hurls away.
Not every soul she's known,
but one made grief her own.

He was her single light,
her moon against the night.
He cracked trust’s fragile seam,
and "all" became her scream.

She asked me, how would you like your coffee?

I answered:
Black — two spoons, two sugars, please.

She smiled, a smirk dancing on her lips.

I confessed:
Once a fool told me,
“Black makes a man good in bed.”
Time proved it nothing but a myth.

So, dear,
let the sugars remain
to sweeten a man’s heart
and soul.

tight enough to hear my heartbeat in its seams.
Sir’s scissors slid up my thigh,
cold bite tracing the vein,
a slit opening like a whispered threat.
Safety pins hold the wound shut
for now.
The hem’s been hacked raw,
frayed strands kissing the tops of my stockings,
air licking skin that should be hidden.
Three shots of Chivas burn through me,
liquid courage, liquid sin.
I lean in close enough for you to feel my breath,
close enough for my lips to graze your ear,
and I say,
Some women wear lace for beauty.
I wear it to watch men bleed.

Between question and answer runs a river of blood
each question births its own fierce reply.
Silence is a shroud we drape over the self,
and in the age of ****, silence is a crown of fire.
Poetry sheds its skin of metaphor, naked and raw;
the question strips the poem to its bleeding bones.
Strike a poet with your thought
but beware, deepen your metaphor before you knock.
I have heard the clumsy verdicts of my time
ears deaf to beauty, tongues sharpened as swords.
I answered harsh when the hour demanded battle,
sweet when the story’s soul cried for grace.
Rhymes are prisons and wings alike;
sometimes I pass through as a ghost,
more often they seize me in a tempest,
and I pour the hunger of my craft into their veins.
I drank deep from the storm of eloquence,
kept wild bees buzzing in the nectar of the line,
drove wolves from the bloodied pool of metaphor,
wrestled lions in the arena of chaos and form.
I have played the lute that blooms like a war cry
for the cities and for the Bedouins’ raw, untamed howl.
I have read to poets whose hair turned to silver ash,
while their verse remained green
poems born in joy,
and poems that claw at the guts of grief.
Some verses are prayers that thunder like storms,
some are lust’s own savage offspring;
from these, I have cleansed myself
like washing away a dark, ancient curse.
Poems are women, each a flame,
each a world of light and shadow.
And beauty itself is a poem
a young woman distilled
from the fierce nectar of femininity.
Yet still
I devour poems.

They say youth fades, when hair turns snow,
They do not see the heart's true light.
If only they could truly know,
The passion's ember, burning low.

The soul holds fast a secret plea,
To keep the spirit wild and free.
Hearts live and beat, no matter years,
Beyond the whispers and the fears.

When eyes behold the one they love,
The world around blooms like a dove.
The pulse awakes, a trembling beat,
Like dawn arriving, fresh and sweet.

This silver hair, a gentle veil,
Covers a truth that will not fail.
Deep in the heart, a fire's core,
Burning bright, forevermore.

In Cairo’s haze, a café’s glow,
a woman sat, in seventies’ grace
her eyes held oceans of memory,
watching the river of life flow.
Shisha smoke curled like fleeting art,
her smile reached quietly into my heart.
Her face—a map of sun and years
shone with a calm that silenced fears.
“Madam,” I asked, “your secret bright
how do you shine with such pure light?”
She smiled, a whisper soft, concise:
“When ignorance began to rise,
I only said: ‘You are right… indeed.’”
I frowned, still caught in puzzled fight.
“Is that not wearying, endless night?”
She leaned, her gaze like fading skies,
and whispered deep with knowing eyes:
“You are right…”

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.

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…

He stands on the pulpit, voice calm and wise,
Telling the poor to seek heaven's prize.
"Shun the world, take little, be meek,"
But never does he name the strong who steal what the humble seek.
He speaks of virtue in tattered shoes,
But not of the hands that tighten the noose.
He blesses hunger, calls it divine,
While feasting in halls built from stolen time.
He says, “Your burden is sacred and light,”
But his silence is heavy, darker than night.
For truth, when bent to serve the blade,
Becomes the lie by which justice is betrayed.
So, mark this preacher, soft of breath.
He sings of peace, but sows in death.
If he blesses chains and praises grief,
Then he wears not faith, but the cloak of a thief.

My Lord,
pluck out my eyes
for now I see.
Listen,
I have sinned.
I loved the lie
and spat upon the truth.
She came
beautiful,
a marvel of flesh and voice,
and sang,
"I am the devil."
And I,
a fool,
did not believe.
Now I love the sinner.
Now I hate the good.
Now I worship power.
Now I bow to injustice.
She was the devil
or her shadow.
Evil, with a honeyed tongue,
converted me
into a rewound soul,
a God-hating ghost
wearing the rags of flesh.
O God
bless me with Your power
and
**** me
now.

Cursed in the religion of the Most Gracious
is he who imprisons a people,
who strangles a thought in its cradle,
who lifts the whip over flesh,
who silences the tongue of truth,
who builds walls to cage the living,
who raises high the banners of tyranny.

Cursed in every creed and scripture
is he who squanders the rights of humankind,
even if his lips murmur prayers,
even if his hands scatter alms,
even if he walks the earth
clutching the Bible in one hand
and the Qur’an in the other.

While your soul writhes in unrest.
Cursed be he who walks away,
forgetting the bond, never once looking back.
Should he return, trust him not
for hearts that dared the darkness
will return clad in masks not their own.

*******.
I don’t need your flowers.
Then I ran to the hill
screaming, dancing your name
into the sky.
“Follow me, *******!”
A teenage heart
with a woman’s craving for love
yielding, radiant,
beautiful,
****,
full of lust, honey.
Come, fill your cup.
Come, warm your blood.
I am your dream, teen.
I am your soul’s dare.
Come to rest,
come to burn.
My wine was stored in animal skin
aged in darkness,
waiting to be broken.
Sweet, sweet me.
Come and have me.
I dare you to my madness.
I dare you to be brave.
I dare you
to enjoy my wine.

Step right up for a whirlwind tour through the wild, wordy world of poetry and where creativity runs free, metaphors get dramatic, and commas have emotional breakdowns.

We’ll dig through the dusty scrolls of history (don’t worry, no Latin quizzes), sip some cultural tea, and find psychological comfort in realizing that poets have been just as confused and emotional as we are for centuries!

Join us for laughs, deep thoughts, and possibly a few dramatic sighs.

Never trust again
nor reconnect with
anyone who tried to silence your voice,
break your spirit, or shatter your being.
A snake, no matter how smooth
or beautiful, only sheds its skin to grow.
But never forget:
“a snake remains a snake”

Didn’t I tell you, baby
No one could ever love you like I do?
Didn’t I tell you, baby
You were my world, my sky so blue?
Didn’t I tell you, baby
A million times, I love you?
Didn’t I tell you, baby
You reigned in my heart, my queen so true?
Didn’t I tell you, baby…
But still, you chose to walk away
To chase what they now call self-love.
It didn’t bloom like you hoped, did it?
And now, after breaking my heart,
You turn to come back.
Forgive me…
For taking back my vulnerabilities.
They were too sacred to leave unguarded.
And now, I think I’ll keep them.
True.

Do not bear hatred, though the wrong be great,

For God perceives all deeds  both love and hate.

Leave judgment to the One whose scales are true,

Who rights all sins when justice falls due.

And pity him who walks the path of wrong,

For tyrants dance, but not for very long.

They sleep in joy, yet wake in dread and pain

Oppression’s wine returns in bitter rain.

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.

Knuckles call the night, the dark throat swells, echoes wail.

Your face, dawn's whisper, shatters this shadowed silence.

Knock, and I am whole again.

Hannah
Nathan, you look like a warrior.

Nathan
Yes, dear… though no one told me which knee earns the Emperor's approval.

Hannah
You’re a fool, Nathan.

Nathan
A practical one
I’ve been polishing the ironing knee.

Hannah
(laughs) Of course. That’s why your trousers gleam while your honor wrinkles.

Nathan
When the Emperor owes you his throne, knees are merely decoration.

Hannah
This world is ironic, Nathan
But only for those still pretending to believe in it.

A feathered sting, a bone-deep ache,
My breath caught, for goodness sake.
An arrow's flight, a sudden blight.

I pulled it free, the wound still raw,
And turned to see, ignoring law.
Whose hand so sure, brought pain so pure?

Not when the barb ripped flesh and bone,
Did life depart, and I was flown.
But when I knew, the eyes of blue,
My dying started, and it was you.

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.

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.

Forasmuch as I have lov’d this life,
No sorrow shall I bear in death.
My gladness have I sent on high,
To vanish in the azure breath.
I ran and leapt with falling rain,
The wind I clasp’d unto my breast.
Mine own cheek, like a slumb’ring babe,
Upon the earth’s fair face did rest.
Forasmuch as I have lov’d this life,
No sorrow shall I bear in death.
Take thou my love, sweet soul so nigh
And know, this parting is not goodbye.

One of the harshest things I have ever read! "And I have pardoned so that we will not meet again with God."

I have pardoned
not from love, nor grace,
but to unthread your name
from the fabric of my fate.

No thunderclap of anger,
no blaze of righteous flame,
just the quiet closing
of a door that once knew your name.

I set you free,
not to hold your hand again in light,
but so our shadows
will never cross in God’s sight.

No reckoning in heaven,
no parting words to send
I forgave you only
so this could truly end.

So if you seek me
on that final, sacred shore,
know that my forgiveness
was the lock upon the door.

In shadows deep, she bore the flame,  
Her woven grace, none dare to blame.  
Within her arms, my grief would fade,  
By her truth, the world is made.  

Her heart’s a well of honest tide,  
No insult dwells where love abides.  
When I do love, her soul shall mend,  
The woman holds what earth defends.

Fourteen years old, a time so new,
I heard of love, a word for few.
My mother, father, said it true,
But not the love I looked for, through.

Night and day, in books and rhyme,
I searched for answers, all the time.
Just four small letters, plain and clear,
But what they meant, brought me to fear.

One morning, on my school way,
A homeless woman, old and gray.
Her eyes like glass, a broken view,
"Young one," she whispered, "Listen to this."

"You search in vain, you seek it wrong,
You must walk this tunnel, dark and long.
Go in alone, where shadows creep,
Some go inside, and never keep
Their minds quite right, they lose their way."
She turned to mist, and slipped away.

I stood there stiff, with shaky knees,
Heard echoes deep, inside the space
Was that love screaming? Or just pain’s trace?

Then faces moved, a shifting light,
I saw her there, so clear and bright.
She glowed, a ticket in her hand,
A victim too, in this strange land.

An arrow struck my pulsing heart,
Another tore my soul apart.
And still I walked, the path untold,
Into the hum, a story old.

The tunnel had no end, no sign,
Just unseen hums, a scent so fine
Of old, old rain, a whispered quest,
My own voice spoke, putting to test:

"Love isn't found, it finds your soul,
And leaves a wound, beyond control.
A mark that never truly heals,
But beautiful, your spirit feels."

I never saw that woman more,
But in the dark, I hear her roar
Not at me, but with a grin,
Like she knew all: the way out, further in.

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.

I’m the one now
sitting in the old chair,
saying all the silly,
mischievous things
to my grandchildren
and somehow,
they love it.
They laugh and call it Grandpa Wisdom.
I just call it joy.
And oh, how I love it.
Thank you
for that joy.

She spoke of silver in my hair,  
A tarnished crown she couldn’t bear.  
If grief has painted strands with time,  
Then moons must fault for nights sublime.  

Each tear I shed spoke of my loss,  
Each dream a wake beneath its gloss.  
Reprove my truth? Oh, let it stay,  
We’ll echo dusk, both turned to gray.

Knees snapped backward,
forced into worship without choice.
Was it triumph, or was it hunger
that made you loom so big and tall?
Did you drink the pleasure
of frightening the small?
Monster black-furred tyrant
you thrashed the skyline
to clutch a young heart in your fist.
But even kings have rivals.
The lion wears a crown
dripping with other creatures’ blood.
The ram carries prophecy
etched deep in the bone of his skull.
The bull dreams with one eye open,
hooves stamping the earth into gold.
All rulers, beast or man
hold their toys
until the toys grow teeth.
And teeth, once born,
chew tomorrow into shape.
The mind alone
is the crown that lasts.

Love…
a powerful, complicated thing.
It lifts us. Shapes us.
And sometimes, quietly…
it breaks us.
It colours our days with joy,
gives meaning to our silence,
and turns the ordinary into something sacred.
But when it leaves
when love is absent
it doesn’t just fade.
It echoes.
We feel it in the cold space beside us,
in unanswered messages,
in glances that once lingered...
but now pass right through.
The lack of love
it’s not just loneliness.
It’s a weight.
A reminder of our need to be seen,
held,
understood.
So, we turn to words
to the poets, the broken hearted prophets,
to those who have tasted the silence
and made music of it.
They speak for us,
those who have felt unloved,
unappreciated,
or have struggled with the hardest kind of love
the one we owe ourselves.
“Love is the absence of judgment.”
Such a simple phrase,
yet it speaks volumes.
True love does not correct or condemn
it welcomes,
without a checklist.
And sometimes
it’s not the person we miss.
It’s how we felt beside them.
The way our laughter filled the room,
or how our soul exhaled in their presence.
We crave the feeling,
not the face.
Love is…
when you shed a tear,
and still want him.
When he ignores you,
and still… you love him.
When he chooses another
and you smile, and whisper,
“I’m happy for you,”
though your heart cracks with grace.
From the absence of intimacy,
a truth emerges:
We don’t seek perfection.
We seek presence.
Not fireworks
but a hand that stays.
And even in the deepest absence…
there is something that never leaves:
Hope.
That love true, fearless,
and whole
will return.
Until then,
we listen.
We feel.
We heal.
And we love
quietly,
bravely,
still.

From birth, a woman dressed in dreams,
awaiting the man
whose touch would discover her hidden notebook,
whose fingers would wander her pages,
fondling each line with tender curiosity.

At last, love arrived
but only for a brief embrace:
not long enough to quench her hunger,
not enough to wipe the dust
from her waiting scroll.

Now the night holds her confessions,
her moans of longing folded into the dark,
her body whispering its ache
to the silence between the stars.

O night, will you grant me peace tonight,
or must I pray the sun never rises?

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.

I am her *******, humble, soft, worn thin,
A silent witness to her hidden life.
I’ve known her body’s secrets, close and deep,
A second skin, I clung to flesh and bone.
I have tasted her sins, the bitter proof,
Felt the deep tremor, held the quake of thighs,
A vessel for unspoken, urgent needs,
The silent echoes of a hurried touch.
I have worn scents of nights that would shame saints,
Of raw desires and whispers in the dark,
The heavy perfume of a world unseen.
Each stain a story, etched into my cloth.
Now, press me closely to your patient ear,
And I will speak what only I have known.
My fabric holds the truth, a living scroll.
No hidden part of her escapes my grasp.
I will name every man, each grasping hand,
Every woman too, whose waiting lips did part,
And the precise hour, when they broke her open,
To spill her secrets, whispered in the night.
I hold the ledger of her pleasure, pain,
The hidden history within my weave,
and the very hour when her heart opened wide.

I married for love,
and love has a price
not in gold,
not in coin,
but in patience,
in silence,
in sleepless nights.
In the slow surrender of self,
until the edges blur.

Yes, I married for love
not for comfort,
not for gain.
But love is no gift freely given;
it asks for everything.
Time.
Trust.
Sometimes, even your dreams.

Love is beautiful
but it leaves marks
where it’s been.

Yes, I married for love.
And no one warned me
how deeply love can wound
how much it takes,
how little it sometimes gives.

Still…
yes,
I paid the price.

To turn a blind eye to the hunger of the poor,
then raise for them luxurious temples
where they may kneel in complaint of hunger,
and whisper their prayers to poverty
on thresholds paved with gold.

Inhale, beloved, inhale
the crystal pipe is a serpent’s throat,
its song coils in your lungs.
Inhale.
Spun is a secret name,
a name written on the ash of angels.
Inhale that name.
Inhale the mask they call sane,
and watch it fracture in your breath.
Inhale.
Let the calendar burn
forget the birthdate,
forget the ledger of the stars.
Inhale.
Unfasten the chain of purpose,
loosen the tongue of memory,
let your name fall silent
into the smoke.
Inhale.

I drink to forget
my keys,
my pain,
the clatter of bees in my head.
But the French cognac tastes of door handles
and old brass prayers.
Each swallow lights another hallway
in this crumbling hotel I call me.
Pain sharpens
not like a knife,
but like a mirror
with too many faces.
And then
cold metal teeth in my palm.
A familiar bite.
Yes.
Of course.
The keys.
They were conducting an orchestra
of forgotten errands
in the soft cage of my hand.
Stupid French cognac.
Stupid hand.
Always holding the answer
like a riddle too proud to speak.

She came to me beneath a crescent moon,
her hair perfumed with night jasmine,
her eyes heavy with the knowledge
that I was born of spells and dark milk.
I laid her down on the silk of my shadow.
The stars leaned close,
each one a witness to my mother’s prophecy
that my touch would burn without flame.
Her breath caught in the hollow of my throat.
I kissed her as the desert drinks rain:
slow at first,
then with the hunger of a century without water.
The witch’s blood sang in me,
chanting words no priest would dare to hear.
Her body opened like a forbidden garden,
and I,
its serpent and its angel,
entered with reverence and ruin.
When she cried out,
the night shivered.
Owls turned their heads,
the wind held its breath,
and the moon closed one eye in envy.

In your soft curves, my faith takes hold,
A prayer breathed low, a tale retold.
Your breath, a hymn both calm and deep,
Sings my weary soul to sleep.
Your nearness stills the storming sea,
Unchains my heart, and sets it free.
My heart’s a garden—your bloom is there,
Dispelling shadows, winter’s snare.
Where your kind feet in silence tread,
The barren earth grows green instead.
This quiet prayer, ten times a day,
To you, my love, my heart will say.

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.

I am her *******.
I have clung to her hips like a worshipper
and knelt in the dark between her thighs.
I have drunk her sweat
until the salt burned my threads,
and I have learned her rhythm
how she sighs before she sins.
I have been the altar for her midnight prayers,
the veil for the tremor of her flesh
when the moon pressed its cold kiss there.
I have swallowed the bite of his teeth,
tasted the copper of his hunger,
and carried the scent of nights
she will deny with her lips
but never with her body.
I am the silk that trembled
when her fingers shook,
the lace that remembers more
than her mouth will speak.
And if you dare press me to your ear,
I will tell you
how she laughed when she came,
how she wept when she wanted more,
and how I still ache for her skin.

I stopped loving on that day,
When I saw the wall that lay
Between the vows and love’s delight,
Locked in war by day and night.

Love arrives and the ring departs,
A wedding breaks the tender hearts.
A cruel exchange, a bitter trade,
A promise bent, a dream unmade.

I stopped loving when I learned
How joy is bought and trust is burned;
It gives, it takes, yet leaves you bare,
The gold is gone, the weight still there.

I stopped loving, for I knew
My sun and storm were theirs to choose.

A fragile thread, too weak, too thin,
To bind my heart, or hold me in.

Forgive the rough edge of my words
they were born in the heat of a breaking heart.
I don’t need you to tell me it’s done;
I’ve seen the cracks widening,
heard the silence growing louder than our laughter.
The fire has been dimming for a long while,
the touch between us turning to stone,
the moments of wild devotion
fading like old paint in the rain.
Now I wear the emptiness like a badge,
my hands remembering
what they can no longer hold,
my body locked in rust,
my soul aching for the ways you once
turned me into a living flame.
And I miss you
not only your mouth,
but the magic it spoke
in the language only lovers know.