Within the fortress of my chest,
two armies rise at dawn—
one clad in crimson silk,
the other in shadowed steel.

Love, with hands warm as sunrise,
lays flowers along the corridors of my mind, promising peace in a voice
that feels like home.

Hate, with eyes like storm-torn skies,
sets fire to every blooming thing,
swearing the ruin is mercy,
and the ashes, my salvation.

They march the same veins,
drink from the same pulse,
speak in the same tongue—
and yet their banners
will never fly side by side.

Some nights, Love wins
and the world feels golden.
Some nights, Hate takes the crown
and I sharpen my silence into swords.

But more often—
they lock arms in stalemate,
pressing their weight upon my soul,
neither yielding,
neither retreating,
leaving me
to live in the uneasy kingdom
where both are king.

"The heart of man is a divided river,
and its two streams know not the other’s course."
— Epic of Gilgamesh

...

Enheduanna - From the Temple of Ur to the Tides of the Sea...

Five thousand years apart,
yet I feel her beside me.
Her robes brush the dust of Ur,
mine trail in the saltwater foam.

She lifts her gaze to the moon god,
and her stylus bites into clay —
lines flowing like silver rivers,
words for a goddess and a lover entwined.

I lift my eyes to the ocean’s horizon,
and my pen bleeds ink into paper —
sentences curling like tides,
words for the man who lives in my heart.

Her night air smells of incense and oil,
mine of salt and crushed seashells.
Still, we breathe the same breath —
the breath that makes words immortal.

Her clay tablets are warm from the kiln,
my pages warm from my hands.
Both hold love,
both hold longing,
both hold the truth of women
who dare to write beauty
into a world that once only counted grain.

Enheduanna —
you wrote the heavens into being.
Tonight, I write the sea.
And somewhere between moon and tide,
we meet,
our words touching
across the ages...

...

NEMESIS

Her Voice — MY FAVORITE FOE

You wear your smirk like sharpened steel,
a weapon I have learned to fear—
and crave.

Each glance we trade
is a duel in disguise,
your eyes tossing barbed riddles
across the space between us.

I am the shadow at your heel,
the storm on your horizon—
you, the thorn in my perfect garden.

And still… I sometimes wonder
how your mouth might taste
mid-battle.

Yet somehow,
we are bound in this dance
of strike and counterstrike,
of victory that tastes sweeter
when it is stolen from you.

Perhaps you are my curse.
Perhaps I am yours.
But tell me—
what would either of us be
without the other to fight for it?

His Voice — MY WORTHY RIVAL

You call me thorn,
storm,
curse…

But you forget—
I was made for this duel,
and you are the only one
who draws my blade so easily.

Each word you throw at me
strikes clean and true—
but you know I will always
answer in riddles.

Each strike you take
only makes me want to step closer.

Do you not see it?
We sharpen each other.
We make the fire burn hotter.

And if I ever claimed victory,
if I ever saw you yield—
the world would grow dull,
colorless,
unbearably tame.

So keep your barbs,
your fire,
your wicked smile…

Because perhaps you are my undoing.
Perhaps I am yours.
But tell me—
what would either of us be
if we ever stopped
fighting for it?

....

THE SILENT GLADIATOR
by Alexandria VonEdenbourgh

I saw him once—
a shadow carved in flame,
walking toward the sea
as if he belonged to the sun.

No armor, no words,
just the weight of a thousand battles
held in the shape of his silence.

He did not see me.
He never could.

But I saw enough for both of us—
the way dawn bowed to him,
the way the tide remembered his name
even when I dared not speak it.

The sun did not ask
who I was to him.
It simply rose
and burned us both.