A Hole in My Heart
for the one who breathes and hopes

There’s a hole in my heart, black as night,
A silent void where warmth once lived.
It echoes with the chill of absence,
A hollow that no light forgives.

I read of love in gilded pages,
Of fire, of longing, of sweet delight.
But the spark eludes my weathered soul,
A candle lost to endless night.

I watch them laugh, I hear them flirt,
Their hearts in bloom, their glances dance.
And mine—so quiet, so unsure—
Feels left outside the world of chance.

For I have loved, and I have shattered,
Been burnt, been bruised, been torn apart.
But still I rise, a scarred survivor,
Still breathing with a hopeful heart.

Dum spiro, spero—so I whisper,
A sacred phrase, my soul’s refrain.
Though decades carve their lines upon me,
That thread of hope has not grown vain.

Yet still the hollow aches and deepens,
A yearning vast, a haunting call—
To feel again that molten fever,
To stand, to leap, to risk it all.

But maybe love returns in silence,
In steady eyes and quiet flame—
Not wild as once, but ever truer,
Not seeking glory, but a name.

So I will wait, and I will wonder,
And tend the fire with gentle art.
For while I breathe, I do not falter—
Though there’s a hole, there beats a heart.

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?

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.

We were artists
But you had the brush
And I had the pen
You drew the worlds, the people
I wrote down the feelings, explanations

You captured the images perfectly
While I can only guess at the words
The way you moved your brush
While I can only stick to lines
Beauty versus perfection

You express your worlds radiantly 
But I can only write in black and white
I wished I traded my pen for a brush
To feel the colors you weaved 
To see the world beyond my script

Maybe if I knew how to color
If my pen drew more than rigid letters
You would have understood me 
In a world of black and white 
You were the color in my life

You are a monstrosity,
A walking atrocity,
Feeding on fear with relentless ferocity,
Draped in control, masked as curiosity,
Preaching decay as divine necessity,
Crushing the truth at full velocity.

You rewrite the past with blind audacity,
Bleeding the future with cruel tenacity,
Shrouded in pride and dead opacity,
Silencing hope with ruthless capacity.

You wear your lies with a soft veracity,
Spitting out law with no sagacity,
Chaining the mind, gutting democracy,
As if blood were a price for your prophesy.

The praise of death was a selfish desire.
You know this.
Yet the prayer comes every morning and night.
But, with no avail does your wish come.
So be it,
and let the desire eat you whole.

In the hush beneath powerlines,
through fractured stones,
no gardener knelt to bless them.
No springtime choir sang.
Still, golden heads rose,
leaning towards the shadowed light,
the kind filtered by clouds
like a half-remembered memory,
or a lullaby hummed to a ghost.
Roots thread through ruin,
tasting rust,
sipping rain
that fell before the world began.
They were never meant to be here.
And yet
yellow ablaze in the rubble.
A flicker. A flare.
The petaled armor of hope
unfurled against battle-smoked skies
as if the world exhaled
and breathed them into being.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

     Strange Lights, Strange Sounds, and Would You Like a Coffee?

In hospital one encounters strange lights
Strange sounds, visions – What is this all about?
Radioisotopes floating around in one’s veins
Dizzies, buzzies, shortness of breath, coughs, sighs

Reality tilts on an axis that isn’t there
Illuminations flash by at unwarped speed
Grey slabs curiously marked maneuver awfully close
Why does machinery slide overhead?

And a kindly voice says, “It’s okay. You’re doing fine”
And then those most welcome words: “Would you like a coffee?”