In ages past, we lived in dark,
awaiting light to split the night,
for wisdom’s voice to pierce the gloom
and birth a world anew.

But these days may be the darkest yet,
as crowds embrace old fear and hate,
reviving chains long thought undone—
the past returned in present fate.

In days of old, the brave took arms
against a tyrant’s deadly charms,
who hunted those beyond his creed—
and now his age returns with speed.

Now comes a time of poisoned speech,
as lords above the poor still preach,
driving all to ruin and wrack
from castles drifting high and black.

Where are the heroes to lead us back—
to days when wisdom lit the track,
where all walked safely, hand in hand,
in freedom’s light across the land?

Where is the safety?
The freedom of the land?

Danger skitters in, like a ghost—
tap.
tap.
soft soles on hard pavement—
every shadow a question,
every echo a warning.

I walk alone, flanked by fear,
adrenaline roaring,
my heart thundering in my ears.
One hand in my purse,
the other wrapped around cold metal keys,
eyes sweeping,
ears tuned to the night’s breath.

The shadows shift—
predators seeking prey,
hatred and hunger in their eyes,
searching for someone
to unleash it on.

This is survival in staccato steps—
not prey,
a lioness cloaked in silence,
not waiting,
but ready.

A woman.
On the edge.
After dark.

I write stories in my mind—
illusions spun to keep the darkness
in my head at bay.
Stories of victory,
of rising,
of finally seeing.

I write poems that shred my soul,
words spilling raw from the wound.
Each line a whisper
to quiet the screaming child
that still lives in me.

I write songs that bloom with joy,
for others to sing,
to make me feel whole
if only for a moment.
Songs to hold the depression
just outside the door.

I write the words my heart exhales—
laced with pain
and bitter delight.
Each one a scream
disguised as verse,
so I can cry
without making a sound.

They stalk through the night,
little agents of chaos,
silent as breath between dreams.
Fierce in their own rights,
they pad on soundless paws,
ghosts in the lamplight’s edge.

With eyes like shattered moons
they leap to perilous heights,
defying gravity and sense,
sliding through impossible gaps
with liquid grace,
fur brushing past the world unnoticed.

Fangs flash like whispered warnings,
claws unsheathed in silence —
a blur, a hiss, a sting,
quick as lightning’s tongue.
They draw red lines with no regret,
then vanish
into shadows they conjure.

Hunters of motion, stalkers of toes,
they wait with stillness honed by ages,
then pounce —
from curtains, counters, corners —
seemingly from nowhere.
Phantoms of domestic life,
they bring terror to feathered toys
and unguarded ankles alike.

But even chaos must rest.
They curl among their chosen kin,
nests of warmth and woven limbs.
Then, as if reborn from war,
they trill and chirrup,
announce their presence proudly,
small furry rattletraps
full of purrs and head-butts,
nudging for the next pet,
the next proof of love.

They are contradiction,
elegant menace,
sweet tyrants of the hearth —
keepers of the quiet hours
and rulers of our hearts.

I not only feel your love each day,
I carry it—stitched into my mind.
I see it when I close my eyes:
your smile,
your hands in mine.
In my darkest hours,
I find your face—
joy written in every line.

Our hands meet,
foreheads rest,
your head against my chest.
I breathe deep—
calm settles
like a hush across my storm.
The world bends around us,
light and sound yielding
to the soft pulse
of our shared breath.

Our love—simple,
but with depths
unfathomable.
We’ve not touched the bottom yet.

We lie beneath
the gentlest blue light,
whispering secrets,
fears,
and pain,
watched by a congregation
of childlike toys—
reminders to stay,
to be.
Our hearts laid bare
in this sacred space,
transcending the world outside.

We love in the quiet ways—
in farmers markets,
in trinkets,
in held space.
An unconditional bond
born from pain,
from grief,
from survival.
We are stitched together
with coffee,
tea,
travel,
stuffed animals,
and shared scars.

Our love has endured
calamity and confusion,
yet we remain—
celebrating,
growing,
thriving.
It is our spine—
the strength we built,
the bond we chose.

I feel it
when my soul cries out.
Your smile—sunlight
chasing shadow,
your hands—lifting,
holding,
soothing the sobs
that silence me.

Even apart,
our love continues the story.
A thread between hearts—
unbroken,
unseen,
but always there.

YOU.
I see you—
like a field of flowers, each blooming in your own way.
All individuals. All so unique. All so vibrant.

I know times are dark.
The shade of fear and hatred
spreads shadows across our wondrous gardens.
But still—you shine.
Enby, trans, queer—the names are many,
for we contain multitudes.

I see YOU.
Yes, you.
I see how brightly you shine, even when life tries to dim you.
When the dark specter of depression clouds your vision.
When your mind flashes from thought to thought,
never resting, always racing.
When pain rolls and thunders through your body—
I still see you.

I see YOU.
You are timeless.
Your strength is your authenticity.
I see how you become your true self.
How you hold space.
How you carry one another through the dark,
your light bringing joy, warmth, love.
You bring all that into my life.

I see YOU.
Even you—the ones who feel forgotten.
The flowers I see carry bruises.
Some spring back quickly. Some take time.
Burdens weigh down your petals—
but the rain of shared tears,
the sunlight of being seen,
restores your bloom.

I see YOU.
All of you—
your joy,
your pain,
your warmth,
your struggle.

You are flowers—
some forged of steel,
some radiant as the sun,
but all blooming,
still here,
still seen.

When I was young, someday was forever —
a tunnel so long I couldn’t see the light,
let alone the end.

As I grew older, it became a memory: someday,
someday I would, if I could.
A fading echo as I began to live, to love —
then loss came, and someday became a dream.

Like the shadow of a mountain, someday
was etched behind my eyes.
There was a plan, an idea, a hope:
someday I would, if I could.

These days, someday feels so far from me —
like the memory of a crisp apple on the tongue:
its sweetness burned in,
but hard to speak aloud.

Someday — would I? Could I?
What does the future hold?
Will I ever find that someday?

Or — more deeply —
is this my new someday?
An image I could never have imagined
without the life, the love, the loss?

What is someday?
A dream,
a regret,
an illusion —
or a seed, still buried,
waiting to bloom?