You can’t photograph
the sun at its highest,
or the moon when
she stares too hard,
the truest things
resist capture.

The scars on her body seem
to leech the dopamine from
her veins― She felt that pain
is the residue of joy.

Pearls are born in turmoil
within oysters—so is love.

The womb creates the
bones so does the grave.

The flesh — is only
borrowed.

Love demands
openings,
tender ruptures—
And I’m too raw
to receive them.
I hover myself
to keep
from falling—
Like blocks,
stacked in silence,
each part of me
resting on the next.
One wrong shift,
and I could unravel.
So my body
learned
not to split open
for want.

An infantile urge to
stretch a bedsheet
and pull to reach a
toy just out of grasp
—a manifestation
of adult anxiety.

i see nature
as an
old bride,
adorned by
what
wounds us
she does
not mourn
cyclic
  departures.

You already carry
enough to be believed,
Your heart tastes like
strawberries and
listens like a god.
Your blood keeps you
from rusting and  
clears cobwebs within.
Your bones keep
your daring steps
from stumbling.
Your eyes have
the power to soak
uncertainties.
Your skin lets
you love.
Your wit helps
you continue.

What more can
they ask of you?

Poetry
isn’t
always
about
cactus
giggling
under
raindrops
or raging
against
herbivory.
It’s the
art of
being
heard in
babbling
phases.

My love
flows steady,
like the
  ocean’s tide,
  splashing at
  the shores of
  your heart
  in sadness.
   It is as sharp as
    a whale’s teeth,
  as certain as the
    thorns on a rose,
   and as dark as
    tree bark.

To hate
someone
is to
heave a
thousand
mountains
with bare
palmer
creases.
It is to sip
poison
first, just
to test
its sting,
it is to
fall
into a
field
of thistles
  banging'.

Though you’re but a
single drop of rain,
Your presence ripples
through the world—
You rise with the mist,
form clouds above
darkness and carve
rivers below hope,
stir oceans and tides,
sculpt glaciers and
awaken springs,
nourish lakes and
swell the seas.

You are part
   of something vast—
  alone, yet whole.

Loving you was
like sowing a seed
  in sea sand—
soft, vast, and never
meant to grow.

Could the sea swallow
what the heart offers?

My heart
crumbles
  and offers
itself
to you
for feed,
for love,
for sanity
so you
feel full,
because you
want a life,
not just
survival.

A mother's womb,
Like a ripe field,
yields fruit.

- a newborn.

It isn’t love
that’s
"paired"
in poverty
but pain,
thick,
and
   throttling.

An angel who holds a glaring lantern
For me, in the tunnel, before I see the light at the end.
She's my mother;
  Nature couldn't replace her aura.

Though the
moonlight
doesn’t run
out,
and the sun
doesn’t choose
who it warms.
Still I keep
resisting
something
as if I’m
working
against the
earth. .

I began to feed both hearts,
(the red of the body) and the,
(white of the soul),
like disconnected twins,
in the depths of faith,
hoping to find light at the,
end of the dopamine surge.

I am the
farthest
geese,
mingling
over
mountains
but when
my
emotions
descend,
I flatten
into a
plateau.

My body
only
gives three.
I’m either
sad,
happy,
or
empathetic.
That’s a
strange
kind of
survival,
a triangle
of
emotion
holding
me up.

I love
how certain
things in
my home
pull me
inward
candles
burn
unevenly,
like my
moods,
objects
talk here
hey,
remember
that night?
my
bear-skinned
pillows
have taken
the thud
of chameleonic
moods
anger,
joy,
sadness,
guilt
each mind
arriving
with its
own weather-
still things
here
remind me
of my fate
living in
a place
that keeps
returning
to love.

This morning,
i felt that
nature, too,
celebrates
the birth of
her saplings-
lifting their
tender heads
toward the sun
and scraping
them against
the smudged,
beheaded
moon.

Nature depicts
abscission as the
beauty of life,
so why do I
call it detachment?

A tree never
weeps at night.
The birds
   are coming—
Too eager,
Too heavy.
The grass
beneath
sleeps,
still and
silent.
The fruits are
surfacing,
slow and sweet.
It breaks down
at dawn—I see
geriatric leaves
falling,
In the middle
of everything.
A tree can’t
cry, instantly like
human with
freedom—
Only the leaves,
that endured
Too much,
fall on time.
They dry beneath
stars, and by morning,
crumble, golden
at the root.
The grass leans
inward,
Its blades curled
Like a listener
carrying the weight
of someone
else’s grief.
              
🌳🌳

I was sitting
deliberately
cross-legged
on the carpet,
listening to a
divine lecture,
each word felt
like light
falling in
my heart.
As I gazed
down,
my attention
drifted towards
the movement
around me
so many feet,
each searching
for space in
the crowd.
There’s something
special about feet.
They perform
classical
conditioning
on the pilgrims.
Each step a
response and
stimulus to
the next,
saying “Come.”
In mosques,
temples, and
churches,
people take
small, reverent
steps toward God.
Each foot quietly
follows the
imprint of another,
as if reinforcing
belief,
creating a path
of shared faith.
The ground
becomes sacred
not because
of what’s built
upon it,
but because
of all the feet
that have
stepped on
it with devotion
each one distinct
in size, pace,
weight, and
locomotive
ability, yet
move toward
the same purpose
carrying people
through rituals,
toward altars,
toward prayer.
They become
silent guides.
Perhaps this is
why sacred spaces
are always crowded
not just with bodies,
but with the energy
of countless footsteps,
layered one
over the other.
In divinity,
one foot invites
another,
and by these holy
increments,
faith multiplies.