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a triptych in ruin, reckoning, and return

I. The Pathology: I Knew It Would Burn

I wasn’t fooled.
Don’t you dare think I was.
I saw the warning signs in neon,
flickering like a ******* motel vacancy light.
And I checked in anyway.

The first night we met,
I tasted the voltage on her tongue.
She was a live wire wrapped in silk,
a hand grenade with a pulse.
I knew her pathology before I knew her name.

And when her ex called—
the good man, the one who tried to warn me—
I listened.
I heard everything.
And then I turned the volume down,
lit a candle, and said
“Let me try loving her differently.”

She love-bombed like a war criminal.
Doted like a spider weaves silk.
Told me I was everything
until I couldn’t remember what “nothing” felt like.

But I signed the contract in blood.
I wanted the devotion,
even if it came from a burning church.
I wanted to be chosen,
even if the crown was made of barbed wire.

There was a beauty to the ruin.
A heat.
Not the warmth of comfort—but the fever of infection.

She did not take me.
I offered.
Piece by piece,
like petals to a pyre.
Not for her approval—
but for the beauty of the burning.

Her touch was never tender.
But it lingered.
Like perfume on skin
long after the body has left the bed.

And I let it linger.

There were nights
her name sat in my mouth like a foreign prayer—
something I didn’t believe in
but whispered anyway,
just to feel it echo.

She was all cliff-edge and velvet.
All pulse and warning.
And I was the fool who mistook vertigo for flight.

What I loved was never her.
It was the losing.
The falling.
The moment just before the break
where everything was possible,
and none of it was mine.

Even now,
when I exhale too sharply,
I swear I can still taste
the ash of her vows.


II. The Penance: Surviving Myself

I did not crawl from a wreck.
I drifted from a husk—
a ship split open on an invisible reef.

The salt never left my mouth.
I wore it like a relic,
like the tongue of an ancestor who forgot how to pray.

The sky was a torn sail above me.
The days, barnacled and dragging.
The nights, stitched with the faint cries of animals
who had long since turned to bone.

There was no triumph in this exodus.
Only the dull ceremony of walking:
foot after foot across a landscape
stitched from broken compasses and cracked ribs.

Sometimes I mistook the ruins for myself.
Laid my head against the stones and called them home.
Listened for heartbeat in hollowed things.

Forgiveness wasn’t offered.
It was harvested—
thorn by thorn,
from fields salted by my own hands.

She was never the architect.
She was the wind that found the cracks.
I was the tower already leaning,
the bells already rusted silent.

In my quieter hours,
I built altars out of what remained—
splinter, ash, a few stubborn stars
refusing to fall.

There are still nights
I dream of being swallowed whole.
There are still mornings
where my breath smells of shipwrecks.

But there is something now—
something that does not beg or howl or vanish.

A new silence,
dense and gold-veined,
growing in the hollows she left behind.


Interlude— In the Hollow Between

No one told me
the silence would be so loud.

That after the storm
there would be no sun,
only fog thick as milk
curling through my lungs.

I did not beg for light.
I did not curse the dark.
I simply sat—
hands open,
palms salted with memory.

There was a moth once
that lived in my chest.
Fed on echo,
slept in shame.
I haven’t felt it in days.

I think I may be alone now.

And for the first time—
that does not terrify me.


III. The Passage: From Fire to Form

I did not rise.
I unburied.

Fingernail by fingernail,
from beneath the collapsed arches of who I thought I was.

There was no anthem.
Only the slow recognition
that the sky still ached for me,
even after I forgot how to look up.

And there—
in the first true clearing,
where the ashes no longer smoked but simply were
stood a figure.

Not a savior.
Not a siren.
Not a cure.

A mirror, carried in human hands.
A lighthouse, burning not with rescue, but with recognition.


She did not find me.
I found myself,
and there she was—
already waiting.

Not as prize,
but as witness.
Not to my ruin,
but to the slow architecture
of something holy rising from it.

She touched my hand, once.
Lightly.
And the earth did not tremble.
I did not fall.

Instead, the bones beneath my skin hummed
with the strange, quiet music
of being known—and still free.

I realized then:
I had not been climbing out of the past to reach her.
I had been climbing to reach myself.

She simply stood at the gates,
smiling like someone who had seen the stars rebuild themselves before.
They caressed the stone with open grace,
the trembling fiber, molten thread.
Their fingers learned each hollowed place
where breath and silence bled.

They shaped, and shaping held them whole,
for hands that sang in woven sighs.
But craft alone cannot console
the ache that leaps, that flies.

The wheel spun hours into dust,
the chisel kissed the throat of stone,
the loom unraveled thread and trust
and clothed the world unknown.

Yet still the fire withheld its claim,
it would not bend to patient hands,
for art demands the broken flame,
the blood no craft commands.

Why is it easier to fold and drift,
to close the eyes, to drift unseen,
to call the weightless current gift,
to name the dreamless dark a dream?

It is easier to fall asleep,
to press the mold, to bear its seam,
to call the shallow caverns deep,
to live another’s dream.

It is harder to betray the frame,
to slip the taut skin clean apart,
to breathe into the searing flame,
and carry fire in the heart.
"In the Hands of Fire" is a meditative, structured poem that explores the tension between craftsmanship and true artistic creation. Through a controlled yet emotionally resonant form, the poem examines humanity's long history of making — from the shaping of stone to the weaving of stories — and questions when, if ever, the act of creation transcends into something more than skill: into genuine artistic fire.

Each stanza progresses from honoring the labor of the craftsman to confronting the deeper ache of original thought — the existential hunger that skill alone cannot satisfy. The poem is marked by careful, slanting rhyme, tightened meter, and a subtle undercurrent of sensuality, lending the work a tangible, almost breathing quality without descending into sentimentality.

The tone remains contemplative and tender throughout, avoiding accusations or polemics. Instead, the poem invites the reader to sit with the painful beauty of its questions. The structured ABAB slant rhyme scheme provides a gentle rhythmic pulse, enhancing the poem’s tension between discipline (craft) and the yearning for transcendence (art).

Imagery leans toward the tactile and elemental — stone, thread, fire, bone — evoking both the physicality of craft and the ephemeral nature of inspiration. There is a quiet mourning in the lines for the human tendency to drift into complacency rather than risk the harder path of original creation.

The artist’s intent with In the Hands of Fire was to explore the difference between the refinement of skill and the dangerous, necessary leap into true creation. While honoring the dignity of diligent craftsmanship, the poet suggests that skill alone does not constitute art.

Rather, art arises from a rupture — a questioning, an aching for something beyond arrangement. The artist also questions why so few choose to awaken to this necessity, proposing that it is easier — and perhaps tragically human — to drift, to accept imitation over authenticity.

The poem ultimately stands as a soft but unflinching meditation on the state of creative spirit in an increasingly mechanized world, affirming that true art demands not just the hand, but the heart willing to burn.

"True creation demands not the hand alone, but the heart that dares to set itself on fire."
We carved into stone —
because the earth would not remember us.
We painted onto pressed fibers —
because the river would forget.
We struck the press — metal on metal —
because a voice, once spoken, dies.
We soldered light into wire —
because even paper withers.

Each time —
a tug —
a pull —
the hand of art against the grinding stone of the world.
A desire — the human one —
to be more than a sigh against the windowpane.

And now —
now there are hands that shape words without feeling —
voices without breath —
thoughts unbothered by thinking.
The mirror has learned how to draw faces.

But I wonder —

can you teach a child to wonder,
if the hands that raise them are mirrors?
can you teach a heart to speak,
if the only language it knows is arrangement?

Can a soul be de-encoded,
once it has been filed, copied,
losslessly compressed?

And when we speak of touching earth —
grasping the real, the aching dirt under the dream —
I wonder —
have we ever truly touched it at all?
Or were we always reaching through glass?

It is easier to drift.
It is easier to let the current carry us, eyes closed,
believing the drift is the dream.

It is harder to open the eyes —
and harder still to keep them open.
It has always been harder.

Somewhere,
someone
still tries.
life has a sense of humor, we have perspectives. sometimes they align.
dust forgets the footprints it holds
stars bleed themselves dry for nothing
and still, we sing.

we sing with broken voices
through neon that buzzes its last apology
through gravity that pulls and lets go like tired hands.

we sing because the mirror lies,
because the air tastes of plastic prayers,
because the dreams are old enough to crumble when touched.

we sing for the ghost casinos,
for the red velvet burnouts,
for the craters we once thought were gardens.

we sing not for remembrance,
not for mercy,
but for the small, aching pleasure
of being real
in a world built of reflections.

the lights flicker.
the neon dies.
the song drifts
into the empty dark
like a spark too small to see —
but still, it burns.

and for once,
that is enough.
(for Sarah Glover, last singer of Mars)

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5044822/the-last-song-on-mars/
When I was cold,
my surface was so predictable.
An icy land allowed me
to be alone, distant, safe.

One day, the sun came,
and changed my frame.

The warm wind melted everything.
I became defenseless saltwater.

Untamed tears,
chanting my past lives
hidden in the drops
of who I was
and what I longed to mean.

With time, the calm waters
turned clear and soothing.

The particles of light shimmered silently
in the fractured space,
being so gentle, like a healing touch
lost in the dark past.

Now, when a strong wind blows again,
I'm so afraid of my untamed waters.
I don’t want to hurt,
I don’t want to be hurt.

Without shape, without frame,
I’m so strong and fragile
in perfect duality,
like a fierce ocean seen in fulfilled light.
I hear this endless symphony
calling me to the definitive solution.
badwords Apr 21
I’ve left the oven on
for years.
Somewhere between metaphor and meaning,
something’s always been burning.

But no one’s eaten in a while.

They called it voice.
I called it
a slow confession wrapped in rhyme.
A sugarcoated breakdown.
Something easy to swallow
if you didn’t read too carefully.

They wanted brevity.
I brought blood.
They wanted truth.
I brought formatting errors
and a whisper shaped like static.

Do you remember the one
with the anti-light?
No?

Of course not.
You don’t remember the one who screamed last.
You remember the one who rhymed "heart" with "start"
and got 200 likes for it.

Now my name is on the box
but it’s spelled wrong
and the font is smiling too hard.

The cookies still crumble
but no one eats the edges.
That’s where the poison is.
That’s where I lived.

So I’ve folded the apron.
Swallowed the last word
before it could become a quote.

Let the gods of good taste keep their ovens.
Let the algorithm rot.

I’ve got shoeboxes full of unsent stanzas
and no more hunger
for applause shaped like echo.
Do better.
badwords Apr 21
They put my name on the box
but I don’t remember signing anything.

All I know is
the cookies smell familiar.
Like a Tuesday that never ended,
like the living room before the arguments
started showing up in the drapes.

They say they use real butter.
Small batches.
Heritage grains.
But I know
you can’t bake silence that warm
without a little blood in the dough.

The woman on the package is smiling
because she’s not allowed to scream.
Every wrinkle airbrushed to resemble trust.
Every crumb designed to disintegrate
just before you remember why you started chewing.

I keep eating.
Because what else is there?
Dinner was a voice memo.
Breakfast was a bookmark.
And no one texts first in this house.

There’s a flavor I can’t place—
something like
apology,
or static,
or being loved
by accident.

"Cookies.”
Now available wherever truth is sold
in resealable pouches.
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