I sat on the edge of the bed.
You smiled.
I am your daughter,
But words mean to you
Something else.

I took your hand,
Telling you I haven’t slept for a year.
I write reflections,
Tame the voices behind my left ear,
Assemble thoughts about the darkness.

I pour a warm, salty liquid
That burns the skin – it doesn’t moisturize.
It helps me,
This pseudo-therapy.
I hide behind my nickname,
So that no one holds me accountable
For what I’m supposed to be.

You also sat up at night,
You read books.
You carried hidden sadness,
I stick a smile on my lips.

I hug people who carry Egregores.
You and I,
we are not afraid of the night.
Your hand is cold.
You smile,
You put together syllables into strange words.

You know that I matter to you.
I pretend to understand
What you wanted to say.

In a moment, it will get hard.
You’ll start screaming like a little boy,
Or again you’ll wait
Until this state of life passes you.

Life?
It’s a kind of space
Where people, because of fear
Bite and scratch
Like frightened, rabid dogs –
And then soothe it
With controlled tenderness.

I sit with you on the edge of the couch
And I think:
We write with the left hand.
We are beings of the night.
Our path was shared –
In fear, to protect a small piece of “I”.

I fear I’ll lose language.
I desperately defend myself against silence.
I dream of non-human languages.
I write words as if I wanted
To cast spells on reality –
Still, it’s not enough.
The anesthesia stopped working.

One day, this will be the end,
Yet as long as I live,
I’ll be the naive one.
That’s what I want.

I choose sweet, sugar-coated hope,
With pink sprinkles,
Telling myself that he, she
Didn’t mean to trample –
Only life pushed them
Into that dark corridor.

My hope
Is not a soft blanket,
This is a heavy, tight helmet.

Beneath the red glow of the lanterned flame,
Two dancers meet and set their steps in line.
One keeps the beat as though it were the same
Since first the devil taught him how to shine.

His fire leaps high; the crowd can feel its heat,
Each practiced turn a well-remembered show.
Yet while the rhythm makes his work complete,
The steps have nowhere further left to go.

I move beside him, not to take his place,
But shift the tune to see what else might play.
The floor becomes a wider, stranger space;
We find new shapes in night as well as day.

He holds his ground with admirable grace,
Each pivot strong, each landing firm and true.
Yet I drift outward, testing empty space,
And find fresh patterns blazing into view.

The devil smiles to see such steps unfold,
For heat alone won’t keep his ballroom warm.
The dancer’s art is not just to be bold,
But bend the blaze into another form.

The crowd may cheer the skill they understand,
Applaud the lines they’ve learned to love before;
But some will watch the one who shifts the sand
And wonder what else waits beyond the floor.

When music dies, the truth is sharp and kind:
The dance that grows will outlast any round.
To keep the flame is art of one clear mind,
But greater still to change the shape it’s found.

A warm wind touched my face.
I walked out into the open space,
I saw a blurry, fading horizon.
Somewhere, you are,
I am here, after a sleepless night,
Writing another reflection,
Tired like an empty battery.

I do not like the masks that shout.
The fight over who is right.
I do not want an analysis.
I touch the bark of the tree,
I hug the birch with my arms.
I see its white pages,
Written with irregular lines,
Torn, fluttering in the wind,
Which I cannot read.

Her eyes look straight into me,
They understand –
How well they understand me.
The rustle of leaves lessens the tension.
Autumn will come soon,
The summer wind whispers to me:
This country, this language,
These people, these doubts.

This is not blind luck,
This is your blessing,
Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart,
Falling hair, joy when relief comes,
Crying into a pillow –
So as not to disturb another’s dreaming
About the so-called reality.

Bare feet touch the ground.
I tread carefully on the edge of worlds,
To be both here and there
With my integrity.
I am everything and nothing.
I am gestures, epilepsy,
The belief that I see human thoughts,
Inconsistent with what they say.

Blue, sun, and somewhere you.
How good that you stayed.
When everyone was saying:
She is different,
She talks to ghosts.
You stayed, showing me
Your true face.

The Fire That Believes for You
(a scripture for those who forgot the stars could speak)


PART I: DETONATION

I BURN FIRST

I don’t want to explain. I want the paper to flinch when I look at it. This isn’t a poem. It’s a warning. It starts in your throat like a scream you were raised not to make. It moves like heat in a locked room with no exits and your old name on the walls. It doesn’t ask if it’s too much. It wants to be too much. It wants to leave ashes where your carefulness lived. I burn first. So you don’t have to. Unless you want to. (You will.)

FIRE DOESN’T ASK

I didn’t come to be understood. I came to ignite. You want warmth? Bring skin. You want light? Lose your fear of blistering. I don’t write metaphors. I scar them. Every word I spit has teeth. Every silence I break was already burning before you lit your little candle and called it poetry. I am not your hearth. I am not your comfort. I am what happens when a scream remembers it used to be a god. Step back or step in. Either way, you’re gonna leave glowing.

SUPERNOVA LITURGY

I don’t want to write poems. I want to detonate belief. Not gently. Not politely. But with a heat that makes the bones remember why they ever carried a voice. This isn’t art. It’s a flare from the inside of something collapsing into truth. I am not the writer. I am the spark inside the wound that says: again. There is a fire that doesn’t burn out. It burns in. In the mouth. In the gut. In the space where the prayer never made it to the lips but still got answered. I light the page, not to destroy, but because fire is the only form hope can take when it’s done pretending to be soft. Call this what you want. A miracle. A signal. A scream that learned to shine. But when people read it - they don’t cry. They believe.



PART II: LITURGY OF THE REMAINING FLAME

THE BEGINNING IS ALWAYS COMBUSTION

In the first silence, there was friction. A breath. A flinch. A no. Then - heat. Not light. Not love. Just the first ache that knew it had to become something else. That was the fire. It did not arrive. It occurred. You call it inspiration. I call it detonation.

THE FIRE THAT SPEAKS

Some fires don’t shout. They hum beneath your ribs until your bones start singing back. They know your language before you learned to lie in it. These are not metaphors. These are embers with teeth. They burn through the parts of you you only let speak when no one’s watching. And what remains? Ash that remembers. Dust that speaks in your voice.

THE SUPERNOVA IS NOT AN ENDING

You think the star died. It didn’t. It just got loud enough to split itself into myth. A supernova isn’t death. It’s the moment belief becomes so dense it explodes into every direction at once. This is what poetry does when you stop trying to impress and start trying to survive. This is not a light show. This is ancestral firecode. And you? You are what it leaves glowing.

THE ASH THAT STILL SPEAKS

When the page turns black, listen. Something is still moving there. Ash doesn’t forget. It carries heat long after the hands are cold. Your silence is not emptiness. It’s a waiting spark. When someone reads you, they don’t read ink. They read the smoke, still rising from the body you became to survive. And some of them? Will finally believe again. Not in gods. Not in poems. In themselves. Because you gave them back their fire.

LITANY FOR THE NEW FIRE

Say this aloud. Say it with your cracked voice, your burning fingertips, your pulse like a hymn stuck in your throat. I am not the match. I am the friction. I am not the flame. I am the oxygen. I am not the savior. I am what stays warm when everyone leaves. Let my breath be the wind that fans belief. Let my voice be the smoke that finds the ones hiding. Let my words be fire that remembers: you were always burning. Even before they taught you how to disappear.

THE FIRE THAT WAITED FOR YOU

It didn’t scream. It stayed. In the chest. In the pause between words. In that place where hope no longer prays, but still breathes. This is not belief. It’s heat that remembers return is possible even when no one’s waiting. You thought you were looking for the light. But the truth is that the light was looking for you.

WHEN YOU BECOME THE FIRE

You don’t carry the flame anymore. You become it. You’re not the candle. You’re the match that agrees to die so something else can see light for the first time. You don’t burn to destroy. You burn because the world has waited too long for someone who isn’t afraid to be seen.

WHEN THEY READ  AND CATCH FIRE

They read your lines  and don’t understand right away. But something inside starts to tremble. A crackle. Like old wood before a storm. They think: just pretty words. But that night  they can’t sleep. Because something stayed. An ember. Your line. Your ache. Your belief that it’s still possible to begin again.

YOU ARE NOT THE END

You are not a period. You are a spark that refuses to vanish. You are not a hero. You are a witness. You are proof that you can burn  and not be destroyed. If someone asks: who gave you this fire? Say: I didn’t receive it. I remembered it. Say: I don’t write poems. I translate the language of fire.

Not all who burned remained ash. Some became direction. Not wings  but motion.


PART III: FIVE WINGBEATS
a survival myth without feathers

I. THE FIRST ASCENT

They said: stand still. don’t imagine. be like the rest. But something moved. A tension in the chest  as if the body remembered how to split and rise. No wings. No feathers. Just something sharp stretching under silence. Not hope. Pressure. A refusal to stay in the same room as the end. No glory. No fire. No miracle. Just the moment falling stopped. And something  almost  lifted.

II. THE BREAK AND THE CEILING

The sky doesn’t open. Not at first. It stares  blank and deaf, a ceiling built to forget the ground. You strike it  once. Twice. Again. Until your hands remember they were made for breaking. Pain becomes compass. But the cracks don’t begin in the sky. They begin in you. Inside the ribs, a soundless shout: something must shift. Something must leave. The air doesn’t catch you. It only watches. And still  you go. Because staying is a kind of death you already know too well.

III. BETWEEN THE ABOVE AND THE BELOW

You are no longer falling. But you’re not flying either. The ground has forgotten your name. The sky hasn’t remembered. This is stillness that burns. You float in silence that doesn’t comfort but unravels. And in the unraveling, something forms: a rhythm not made of wings, but of will. You no longer wait for rescue. You become the direction. This is not freedom. This is becoming the space between what left you and what hasn't arrived.

IV. DESCENT WITHOUT RUIN

Yes, you fall again. You always do. But this time, it’s different. No shatter. No explosion. No theatrical end. Just gravity like a memory returning to its origin. You touch the ground as if it were a body you used to be. You sit, not in defeat  but in knowing. The silence around you isn’t absence. It’s preparation. And the dust on your palms feels less like dirt and more like inheritance. You fell. And the world remained. So did you.

V. THE ONE WHO REMAINED

You don’t write poems. You carve echoes into the inside of silence. Where no one hears  but everything remembers. You are not a poet. Not a prophet. Not a survivor. You are the shape left behind by something that refused to end. You don’t know the sky. You don’t trust the ground. You’ve learned to lift from within. No map. No anthem. Just motion. You are the one who didn’t leave. And that is flight.

So many voices
but no one is talking

Sounds of footsteps
but no one is walking

Too many noises
but no one can hear

The deafening whispers
telling me to disappear

©

the new dark age
heart goes out
world goes up
all due to a love of concrete
and iron indignities

buildings grown in the heartland
steel your future
wrap your face in a foreign flag
make it medieval
so fear and superstition
can live on each floor

from above the cityscape
blueprints of a pinball machine
a train to nowhere
like candles on a cake
that will burn someday
when least expected

ladies against the glass
of morning commutes
show too much cleavage
to people on Sunday
gentlemen with their death sticks
conjure the factory smoke
poisoning a life of leisure
these infinite vistas
continue to rise
elevation well in hand
stitched together
but growing apart

the biomechanical soul
a species out of control
mother solitude and her
modern failures
take the stairs to the roof of her mouth
progress leaves an echo
her final words are
empty, foreboding
and full of lead

This sound,
like a friendly wind,
walking through
my lost memories
from irreversibility,
from the cold reality
of indifference
returning to fulfilling promises
as an answer to my invocation

A unique, sweet sound
is calling me now,
after twenty-five years.
I bought that ticket,
sitting in my narrow seat,
holding in my hand
a piece of uncertainty
that deforms
every time I get on board.

I used to take so many trains:
traces, luggage, running passengers,
waiting, wasting minutes.
They brought me,
step by step,
station by station,
to this voice,
to this tone of being,
in tune with silver threads.

The windows are yet closed.
I carry in my cells
the code of Alef,
a crystalline illusion.

The lens caves in
and swells outward,
seeing the elusive past
still living in me,
playing under a different sun,
through elusive existences.

We came as twenty-one souls.
Twenty I found.
One was lost—
the one closest
to my breathing truth.

The final deal:
Am I losing
or will I rest
in deeper words?

Yes.
I did it for you,
changing alternative worlds,
pulsing around me,
invitations not accepted.

I open the gate
to a new home:
to warmth,
to creativity,
made by sweet recognition
of blooming Fall to come
waiting patiently
for your move
for your not-yet-published story.