We can't know the sea's
depth without the swim,
Nor gauge tomorrow's
progress until it's lived.

Everything reveals
itself—in motion.

Love and hatred descend
in a hierarchy, unraveling
from above—where sun
and moon once kissed,
and love began.

  The sky wrote love—
before we could name it

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.

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

- a newborn.

The womb creates the
bones so does the grave.

The flesh — is only
borrowed.

We lose our true selves—
no longer misted like a morning bud—
the thickened, tangled relationships
bury seeds inside our faith,
turning it dark.

—this is the quiet inheritance of womanhood.

When I was a kid,
emotions were
monotonous.
A candy was
just a candy.
Happiness came
fast and full.
I didn’t wonder
who gave it,
or why.
I just smiled
and ate.
Now,
I think too much
about hearts,
about hands,
about faces,
about the things
people want
when they give.
Now, a candy feels
like a trap.
Love feels like a deal.
And the world?
Too heavy
for joy to be simple.

Altruism
has
become
an old
film reel,
where grief
looked noble
and death
had meaning.
Now people
water
relationships
for their
own springs.

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.
              
🌳🌳

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

No one
drowns
in their
own
waters.
Fish
don’t.
How
could
you?

When I force frozen
meat apart before
it’s had time to thaw
it injures and tears
where the ice clings
too tightly.
  The meat no longer
whole, scatters into
broken bones and
bleeding fragments.
  Your absence undoes
me like this not all at
once, but with a quiet
rip, where we once
held each other too
close to separate
  without breaking.

I used to be
a difficult kid
when it came
to eating.
I didn’t
raid fridges
in quest
of food.
To ensure
my good
health,
my mother
fed me
spoonfuls
of bone pulp
on bunk beds.
She’d scoop
it out,
blowing air
to cool its fire,
then press it
into my
mouth
with the
quiet panic
only a mother
knows
fearful I’d turn
my head,
or spit
what she
believed
might
save me.

i fear
that folded
slip with my
father’s stages
chronicled
in fading
script and
quiet list
of my
mother’s
final
condiments,
whatever
might make
death taste
less bitter
i don’t
want grief
to tear
anything
our parting
should be
like clouds
drifting in
shear
soft and
undramatic.

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

The sky was
cloaked
in gray.
the clouds
were weeping.
As I walked today,
tears began to
fall on me—
and they made
me fertile.
I saw golden leaves
lying crushed,
flattened
by footsteps
that never paused.
Nature often
held me,
gently even when
she grieves,
And I wondered—
If God had told us
That fallen things
were sacred,
Would we
have loved
them better?
Would we
have tread
more lightly?
Seen beauty in
their break?
Found grace
In letting go?
Would we
have stopped
Before the
bruised things—
Not out of pity,
But reverence?
On sharp stones
Lay orange
flowers,
Their sleep
just ending—
As if they were
still dreaming
Of the sun.
And in their quiet,
Something
inside me
softened, too—
A stillness,
A small bloom,
A reminder
That even
broken things
wake beautifully.

🌸🍁

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.

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

Soon after being
struck by
the wind and
your wayward love—
The doors of my
heart opened
Like a double-sliding
window.
I inhaled too sharply —
and the shards came in
with the air.

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.

Last night,
 meant to
loosen
the bulb
I wrapped
my hands
in woven
cloth, and
coaxed the
moon down
instead
It creaked,
blushed,
and fainted
slipped into
my palm,
like a lover.

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'.

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

The sun
says nothing,
yet the
world
answers-
warbling,
chirring,
tweeting.
The sun opens
me like a door
each day and
the moon is
my final exit-
and between
these two
i'm kept.

Sometimes
out of purpose,
Sometimes
out of love,
Sometimes
out of necessity,
Sometimes
for a reason,
Sometimes
accidentally,
We make
someone happy.
And in those
quiet moments,
we feel
most human.

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.

I survived your Judas kiss.
It was a bee sting, a torrent of pain.
You shoved me off like a lovable pet,
unleashed in a squall.

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.

One
wacky
thing
about
learning-
you start
off,
knowing
less but,
feeling
sure,
you tack
on extra
syllables-
animal
becomes
'aminal',
you drop
a few-
fish turns
into "ish'
we’re born
naming
things,
impetuously,
because
meaning
can’t wait.

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.

I often break the
dough mid-flap.
it becomes prey
to the oil,
which stares at it
with cat-like eyes.
first, it burns
the part that
is torn and
undefined,
thinned too
much by a
distracted
thought.
And in that
moment,
when
the round
should

have held
its form,
I flinch
at the
supreme
domestic
undoing not
because the
roti broke,
but because
I did again
beneath the
weight
of
something
so simple,
so expected
to be perfect.

Sometimes our
emotions behave
like nomads,
camping in unknown
  places for days,
  trying to
   understand life.

They fall with a
heavy slump,
reluctant to rise
like a hippo,
half-submerged,
reclining in mud
with a slow,
  muddy squelch.

each time
someone
dies,
a leaf falls
from a
magnificent
tree in
paradise,
and of the
righteous,
"noor"
remains,
holy light
  maybe-  
matter
takes its
form
in the
silent bare
skies
scarped
by sun
maybe-
happiness
too first
agreed upon
in heaven,
  before it
tumbles
down here
maybe-
wherefore
its always
late,
unlike
sadness,
that we
fashion
and wear-
that comes
so often,
so easy.

In my
deepest
slumber
i do
   prohibited
things
crawl
through
the soft
dark,
a thud
inside
your
organs
they
  begin to
squirm
i leave
no
language
just
presence
upon
awakening
a twitch
in the
thigh,
salt
on the
tongue,
heat
trapped
between
joints
somewhere,
you shift.
somewhere,
i remain.

In a womb of time, we grow,
and heal,
where blood filled vessels
provide foresight into what's,
destined for us.

Its skin streaked
with rain and soil,
bows beneath
just a few drops
of water
grateful for even
that small sip.
Its stem,
a little bent,
its face
still golden.
And in that
gesture,
I saw the
grace of
needing little
   but receiving fully.