They say the gods once sculpted beauty,
chiseling light into flesh,
carving grace into form,
but when they saw you—
they smiled and put their tools to rest.

For what more could be dreamed?
What more could be refined,
when pure love itself had found its home
within the gentle lines of your design?

Italian painter Elio Carletti defined beauty as
"a summation of the parts
where nothing is needed to be altered, added, or taken away."
And that’s you, my love.

Your eyes— In the silent poetry of your gaze,
I see my favorite view
where every look tells stories
only my soul knows how to read.
And every time our glances meet and hold,
My heart whispers that this feeling is right

Your lips—where poetry finds its meaning,
where kindness learns to speak,
a place where time itself grows still,
just to hear the sweetness you release.

Your heart—stitched together with the golden threads of every sunrise,
a love so deep, so endless,
soft as a love song only the universe knows,
that even eternity would be jealous
of the way you make forever feel like now.

And your soul—not merely shaped,
but gifted from above,
a melody where truth sings clear,
where every smile, every grace,
moves in perfect harmony with the spheres.

When my eyes find you,
time loses its rhythm,
and my heart writes sonnets in the space between your breaths,
for in you, I have discovered
the love story the universe wrote just for me.

Sometimes, I fear my depression will win
But then I pick up the pen
And all my problems disperse
I'm writing scriptures,
You'd think the lines
Were birthed in a church
But I'm cursed
I'm not sure if those words have worth
And that's a scary confession
But this isn't a verse
It's a frickin' therapy session
I'm finally learning my lesson
I'm finally calling for help
This is probably the most vulnerable
That I've ever felt.
Searching for a sign
We just play the cards that we're dealt
And yeah, I know that there are times
You wish you were someone else
But you see, inside my mind,
I think you're perfect as yourself
Enrichment of the soul
Is the highest form of wealth
So rest now, my love
All that stress is bad for your health

this feeling that keeps me alive, cauterized by light. the silence of silence is yet possible in the sonority of clouds and the delight of roots. the discreet spaces of time finding a voice, some harmonic highlights. it's not only the moon that gives meaning to void, fullness empties itself into the screaming of colour. almost here, almost there everything scatters, conjoines, rejoices  regurgitated by dreams. seeing with your heart an homage to the interconnectedness of life. I pass through you, you pass through me for a moment as short as a breath. our hands leave behind a trace of something, a roaring heart attuned to herself

Let my every ounce
Of love and courage
Build a steel wall
Around my heart
Around my mind
That it might become
Scaffolding to support me
Then I can say, "Lean on me."

If cupid’s arrow found me, maybe then I would’ve known,
The unspoken poetry that lingered in my head,
Will fade in silence, forever left unsaid.
If Cupid’s arrow found me, maybe then you would’ve asked me


parallel valentines never get to touch
held the words as the letters hush
as we danced in the quiet to the echos of your heart in mine
spaces between our fingertips never intertwine

handcuffed, blinded in hindsight
but your soothing mythical kisses hold me tight
escape reality, into ambivalence prose
unveiled morning, I will love you until I decompose

enduring this serene adoration
nothing else wanted, you're my occupation
brown depths look into mine
exploring the treasured island send chills down my spine

*
hold me close for an
uncelebrated celebration
that's all it's been for me


simply it's all that it'll ever be

By: Zoulaikha

This one goes out to
the rambling, gambling madman
from Aspen- the late great
Hunter S. Thompson.
My drinking has landed me
in prison for a short stint.
To occupy my time,
I read and write,
it keeps my mind sharp
and the nursing homes at bay.
Also, a pen or a book in my
hand has the added benefit
of a signal to the other
inmates that I'm in my own
world, and I don't care to converse.

H.S.T's guerrilla approach to
writing, and his sharp gonzo wit
keep me laughing and thinking
on this carnival ride from hell.
And if I can laugh in prison,
I'm halfway home.
My mind will go where my
body can't.

Like Hunter, I'm a betting man who always
bets on the long shots.
So I'm putting a bundle on
me to pull out of this **** hole
and do something with my life.
** ** **, God Bless you, Doctor.
And as my old man used to say,
"They can **** us, but they
can't eat us."

Ever after
Love of
Romance with
Enchanted kiss
The want
The desire
Open heart
Spread throughout
Never ending chapter
It’s what love is about

Mark down
the seconds between
the flash and boom

That's the distance
True love blooms

the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image

life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but  we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body

so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning

the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured  flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,  
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being

the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the  field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings

then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born

intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking  
whille a distant star is crushing itself,  
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay

perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies