Voting
Jun 5, 2026Poems
LiftedLatestWhispersRediscoverClassicsThemes
🦋 🔄 🌱
Transformation & Change🤔 💭 🧠
Philosophical & Intellectual❤️ 💕 🌹
Love & Romance💔 😢 🥀
Heartbreak & Loss🌅 ☀️ 🕊️
Hope & Optimism😔 💔 🌧️
Sadness & Melancholy✨ 🌸 🎨
Beauty & Aesthetics🎭 😭 ⚖️
Drama & Tragedy⏳ 🕰️ 🌅
Time & Nostalgia💪 🌟 🚀
Inspiration & Motivation👨👩👧👦 💞 🏡
Family & Relationships😊 🎉 🌈
Happiness & Joy💀 ☠️ 🪦
Death & Mortality😂 🤡 😏
Humor & Satire🌲 🌊 🦋
Nature & Environment🏙️ 🚕 🌆
Political & Social😡 ⚡ 💥
Anger & Conflict😱 🩸 👹
Dark & Scary💋 🔥 🖤
Sexy & Sensual🧙♂️ ✨ 🧚♀️
Fantasy & Magical🔮 👻 🕯️
Mystery & Supernatural⚔️ 🛡️ 🎖️
War & Heroism✈️ 🌍 🧳
World & Travel🏛️ 📜 🏺
Historical & Ancientthe thing no one saw
was the winter kept beneath my sleeves
no sirens came for it
no one called it danger,
because some pain learns
how to whisper
i survived the nights
with my hands turned against me,
trying to break open
what only needed tenderness
I survived believing hurt
was the closest thing to relief
morning after morning
I dressed myself in silence,
buttoned shame on my wrists,
smiled like nothing ached
said “just tired”
said “I’m fine”
said everything
except please stay
the ice I wore as armor
the habit of punishment
the old ache
that asked for blood
when it really wanted comfort
the ice is breaking
the river is moving
I am here
and everywhere inside me,
spring
Spring
then, the m.p.'s arrive, they don't find me.
i'm disguised as a boy in a fuchsia gasoline bonnet,
checkpoints, basements & tunnels
locked & mapped
like the running lifeline
on the palm of my hand,
& hid inside the white migration of cottonwood wind.
queen of the fourth of july,
my nodding head through the open hatch
of an m1a2 abrams,
a brat, i am.
the anguish
of military housing & truck-stop uncles.
the poor
girl's netherworld
of hand me down things.
the night,
with its kingdom of street lamps & overseas cigarette machines
& the restless purple martins.
how we hid, how we waited
like wolves,
already gone
by the time
anyone started looking.
© 2026 IngaPink. All rights reserved.
The Fourth Pup
we aren't mute
we aren't shy
we aren't strangers
yet we remain with not a word escaping our mouths, staring into little rectangles of light.
Technology
there is a weight in my chest
that doesn’t belong to gravity
it’s an unborn animal
it takes its time counting my ribs
waiting to hurl me back into the flame
like the skin that remembers its breath
like a scar that still feels the teeth of pain
and the skin has a memory older than my mother
the line between a passing thought and
the surrender may begin to fade
love is the cherry season
love, I see now, is the unasked for
ripening of the cherry
it doesn’t care if
it leaves its sweetness on my tongue
it just throws itself right into
the ***** mouth of the world
it does not read the calendar or
reasonable explanations
it simply waits
it sits at the edge of my awareness
knowing that sooner or later
the afternoon will grow still
you think you hold the reins of your own blood
you think you’re in control
but look how the air splits in two and
love and death look like two sisters
wearing red
cherry season
for Marius and Dan
You came to tell me that Dan was dead.
We sat in silence as I watched you try,
But your whole body felt it,
And with my desk between us, I watched you cry.
I had met your best friend and liked him too.
I too could have loved him, I believe,
But however we felt it,
He was gone and we were left to grieve.
Then my sympathy and sorrow were alloyed –
Unexpected gladness threatened to offend.
But I must own that I felt it:
A sharp joy to see a man weep for a friend.
Unexpected Gladness
Parents left me 19 years ago
in front of a trash
or some door of an empty house.
They all have been leaving since then,
and i'm just a traveller
searching for a home,never to be found.
Is it a curse to recognise all the people around you ?
People known from other lives
other home, other worlds,
and yet you being unrecognised?
Untitled
There is no such thing as perfect
only the quiet agreement
between what breaks us
and what refuses to stay broken.
Still—listen:
the wind learns its shape from open fields,
light rehearses itself each morning
on the edge of every roof and leaf,
as if the world forgives itself
by becoming new again.
You are not a finished thing.
You are a river remembering it is water,
a name still warm from being spoken,
a fault-line holding the sky together
without ever asking to be whole.
Perfect
I am the dough afraid to touch the yeast
terrified of rising.
Too deeply in love with the liquid possibility of becoming
a bun, a boule, a baguette, a bagel, a cake
I hold more seeds in my palms than I can ever plant
and yet
in my mind, they have already bloomed
There is a circle of light on my floor
cast from a source I cannot trace
A blanket, my hands, a heavy chair
nothing can smother it, nothing can dismantle it
The light does not bend
it only alters whatever object it lands upon
And that is how I want to live
Unfiltered. Indelible.
Not changing for the room
but changing the room itself
I am the dough
AT THE LIBRARY WITH HER
A faint ache
curling in my stomach
echoes the old anxiety
of our final project.
A child bursts with noise.
His mother hushes him gently.
Noisy children stress you out.
I find myself wondering.
If children
will ever be part
of our story.
AT THE LIBRARY WITH HIM
On the final day of submissions,
I hurry to the library,
not driven by ambition,
but by the quiet desire
to be where you are.
While you sit there, focused,
lost in our final project,
my eyes wander
to the elderly couple
reading quietly in the corner.
The woman reads poems softly,
while the man watches her
with a kind of love
that needs no words.
And I wonder,
could that one day be us?
years from now,
still side by side,
still looking at each other
like poetry.
At the library (my version/your version)
Standing to attention,
eyes sweeping the room,
hands folded behind me
as if restraint were a language
my body learned too young.
The mind flickers —
a storm behind a locked door,
thoughts pacing like shadows
that refuse to settle.
And still I hold myself still,
breath tight in my chest,
as if someone might read
the tremor beneath my ribs.
There is a closeness in the air,
a presence felt more than seen,
the kind that turns silence
into something weighted,
something that presses gently
against the edges of my composure.
In the moment,
caught between fear and longing,
between the urge to step forward
and the instinct to stay braced —
a quiet confession
in the way my pulse betrays me.
Bound to the Moment
The light at the end of the tunnel,
Is warm but so short lived,
Given countless bundles,
You have to choose to give.
Give.
Give of yourself,
Don’t stay in your skin,
Space out is a coverup,
And the world needs more of you in.
To give is to be present,
To not abort back into the space,
That small part of your mind,
Where you hide,
When you can no longer take.
To give is to be,
To sit while others talk,
And listen purposefully,
To not avert eye contact,
To not run out of rooms,
To not put in air pods,
When someone doesn’t see you for you.
To give is not to dash to a paper,
When something goes awry,
To not pen the moment,
And instead to let yourself breathe.
You are here now.
You are here now.
You are here now.
You’re not there, you’re not in your bed,
Be in the moment, get out of your head,
You’re exactly where Gd placed you,
And you can’t bloom if you never land.
Stop running from awkward,
You’re not flawed, you’re in one piece,
Stop hiding behind spacey, “writer”, and just too deep.
The world needs you in it,
Gd doesn’t make mistakes,
Invite your insides to lie,
Right on your face.
You can’t do life halfway,
Always if, “__________ was good,
It would be different”,
But who says that’s true,
Maybe it would be the same,
Scratch everything I was convinced I knew.
There's a map in my heart,
That’s scribbled, and ripped, and taped,
And all the parts I didn’t plan,
I scratch out while I gape.
It’s like the plans I’ve mapped out,
Hold me back from where I am,
I fear I live in falsity,
In denial and in fairyland.
It’s less painful that way,
To dwell in denial and my mind,
Cause things are too stark,
And they hurt all the time.
Maybe I’m missing my mission,
If I’m never really here,
I lie to myself every time,
It gets too hard to bear.
There's a little girl that’s disappointed,
I know she means well,
But how do I explain to her,
That each time she retreats,
She is building,
Her own version of hell.
retreat again
First ordinary thing I noticed today,
was a heap of laundry,
the washing machine,
the dishwasher standing right next to it.
Silent now, set to hum
Prepared to serve for the day
How can the ordinary be special?
Or how special can the ordinary be,
If not for their presence in our lives?
Ever so present, just like our breath
We know it is there, keeping us alive.
The ordinary is extraordinarily present
On any ordinary day.
Ordinary
She laughs, seemingly carefree,
but the endless worries pick at her from the inside.
Many say that she is perfect
But none see the storm in her mind.
"She's so smart."
"So pretty."
"So athletic."
"So carefree."
"So talented."
But none see the quiet torture
that shaped the girl they call perfect.
"I wish I were like her."
But she wishes she were like you,
wanting everything,
instead of having to be everything.
The undermining pressure eats at her daily,
clawing its way up until it eats her whole.
Lingering dark thoughts stab at her constantly,
But the fake happiness overtakes her when the sun arises.
Many see her as cheerful,
mistaking practised laughter for joy.
No one sees the effort that she puts in,
constantly placing her on a pedestal,
worshipping perfection
as though she were untouchable.
But she, too, is human
thinks human,
and acts human,
a human,
just waiting to be understood.
The "Perfect" Girl
TBH, I have been here before,
Under the name "ARGEEACH"
I'll try to keep this short.
Couple of weeks ago I deleted my posts and my account.
Call it a mini meltdown or whatever you call it when your anxiety is circling the top of the bowl, threatening to manifest into something else and spill out in a dangerous more harmful way.
But leaving here only made my problem get worse.
If you were unfortunate or kind enough to sift through some of my drivel, from when I was originally here you may have read writings I posted about the loss of my wife to cancer in early March of last year. I had been dealing with my grief better since first joining this site, which feels honestly, comfortably like a community.
But the grieving process and everything that comes with it certainly does seem to ebb and flow.
The previous six or seven months before joining hello poetry were terrible...Scary, lonely, sleepless and frightening for my family to witness, and a little dangerous for myself, because I didn't want to be here anymore, I think you know what I mean when I say here.
And I want to tell you man, I was trying everything I could think of,
not to forget, but to help me deal with the most significant thing to happen in my life.
It was Not only the loss of my wife, but the loss of the woman I loved and still love more than life or the air that I breathed, or the breaths I take today. My best friend, my equal, my roommate for nearly 42 years.
The only person I would ever listen to when she would say "hey, I wouldn't do that if I was you" or
"hey, you shouldn't do that"...
She was My absolute everything!
The light in her eyes dimmed slowly, for 10 years, and then completely, suddenly, late one evening.
And it got extremely dark for me too!
I know for sure there are many people here on hello poetry, going through the same or similar situations.
I know this because I've spoken to a lot of them directly.
I also know that it has been very therapeutic for them as well.
So I guess, if you take anything at all from this, let It be... That if you came here thinking or hoping it might just make your life a little bit better or at least more tolerable, I hope that it has done that for you, like it has for me. And if now you're considering leaving, maybe because of the changes that are going on at the site or the annoying f****** bugs
that are eating everything from hearts to alerts and comments to replies or anything else they might
be chompin on.
I say, wait it out, it will get better,
I'm sure it will, I mean, it couldn't get worse... could it?
I'm glad I came back, because it was starting to get dark again.
Well, I think that my reason for leaving has been covered thoroughly enough.
When I came back it would not let me use my old name.
I don't know if this is normal practice or if it just had something to do with all the glitches.
Nevertheless, I should have been clear and honest about being here before.
When a very astute superpoet recognized my vibe, and pointed out that he did, I immediately spilled the beans,
Which was like a breath of fresh air, because by nature or curse, whatever you want to call it...
I Am An Open Book, with maybe a couple pages torn out for non-nefarious reasons.
I never intended to
deceive or mislead
Anyone
And if it feels like I did
I sincerely apologize.
Thanks for reading!
Full disclosure
I was 19,
naive, idealistic,
thinking a nursing home
would be a fun, rewarding job.
I’d play bingo with the old people
and hand out smiles
like medication.
By the end of the first week,
I was elbows deep in **** and ****
***** coating my forearms,
wrinkled skin like crepe paper,
teeth that wouldn’t close right,
or none at all,
and blank eyes staring at nothing,
or glimmers of a life
they once had.
Dementia attacked their brains,
Alzheimer’s stole their identity,
but they still wanted my hand,
still needed a smile,
still wanted to matter,
even if for only a moment.
I learned to take blood pressures
and count respirations
and lift bodies like wet sacks
and wrap them in sheets
with gentle finality,
slide them onto gurneys
bound for the morgue.
I swore to myself
I would never forget
the weight,
the warmth,
the silence.
My back ached.
My shoulders screamed
like angry drunks at closing time,
my hands raw from soap
and oceans of hard water.
But I stayed,
because someone had to be there.
Someone has to care,
even when it smells like death
and despair
and ****
all mixed in with
old flowery perfume,
coffee,
and antiseptic.
The nurses taught me everything:
how to laugh at a **** in the hall,
the different ways to take a temperature,
how to hold a shaking hand,
how to keep your heart from breaking
while the ones you’ve grown to love
slip silently away.
I survived on caffeine,
laughter,
and cigarettes,
tiny victories —
a grin,
a whispered thank you,
a fleeting spark of recognition
in a broken mind.
By the end,
it made a semblance of sense.
I understood humanity
a bit better,
how cruel life could be,
how beautiful it could be,
and why people need people,
even when they’ve forgotten
how to ask.
Someone Had to Be There
Palestine’s cries of joy
For girls and boys
Gaza that may become
The land of no Genocide
Where the people
can reside in the highest peace
Inside the chest and from East to West
Allah is the Best
Allah is Forever Undefeated
So we call for rest
Palestines Ease
Happy,
But alone.
You miss me so much
I can see it in your eyes and look
The make up screams at me
The quotes are indirect
It's beautiful to see and quite frankly
I miss you too
Look At You
Looks
Into
A child’s
Starving
Eyes
Malnutrition Body. A Billion Silent Cries
Life
Always
Comes
Down
To
The
Same
Question
WHY?
Does
A Mother
Have
To
Witness
Her
Baby
Starve
Then
Die
Inspired songs
1) Satisfy my hunger by Peaches & Herb 1970
2) Hungry by Peter Paul and Mary
3) Hungry Planet By The Byrd
4) We Are The Children By U.S.A for Africa
Just about every major singer sang a Little piece of this song, ;Group Band Aid
Hunger
Lead rooftops from Montmartre
You look down at them
The sun reflected right back at you
A glimpse of heaven
God's design
Making the city glitter
But you don't believe in him
The historically portrayed white man
The stem
The root
Of your cynic patriarchal spite
He only gave you an eye for
The famous white authors
And the missing woman legacy
The lack-lustre masculine flair
Of our HIStory
He gave you faith
And you put it in Bikini ****
Paris
What can I do to erase the pain
that he brought into your life?
What can I do to help you through
the pain, anguish, and strife?
Help me to understand your situation.
Tell me what you want me to do.
Show me the way that you are feeling.
I’ll do everything that I can to help you.
I know I can never change your past,
or the way that he broke your heart.
I know that you will always be doubtful
every time we are apart.
But, all I am asking you for is a chance
to prove to you that my love is real.
I want you to put your faith in me
and in time my love will help you heal.
All that you are feeling
and the pain that tears you apart
soon it will all be over.
Just show me the way to your heart.
Open up your eyes and see
just how much I care.
I’ll never do anything to hurt you.
For you I will always be there.
Will you give me a chance to prove to you
That all I am saying is true?
Darling, hold me close to your heart
and feel all of the love that I have for you.
I can turn your world around
if you would just let go.
I can erase all of your heartache
and together we will grow.
All I want for you is to be happy.
I want you to be free.]
from all of the pain and sorrow
that sets you apart from me.
It tears me apart
whenever you break down and cry.
I often wish that I could read your mind
so that I could finally understand why.
You hide behind a mask of memories
filled with heartache and distress.
I wish that for once you would let me in
so that I could help you end your fear and stress.
I’ll never know the way you feel
unless you help me to understand.
I promise that I will never break your heart.
My love will be even greater than
all that you have ever expected.
It’ll be more than you’ll ever need.
Can’t you see how much I love you?
Darling, please believe in me.
Please don’t throw our love away.
Give our relationship a chance to start.
All I want is to be with you forever.
This I promise you, from the bottom of my heart.
Show Me The Way To Your Heart
Morning hugs lasting for hours
The friend date when you bought me roasted chestnuts right near the Rockerfeller Center Christmas tree
The Teddy Bear you gave me which I still have
Knowing thar night changed our lives
Remembering the two graduate students with very little than each other
Look how far we have come with so much more to look forward
too
Yes,we are still lost in Love
With many Precious Moments to look forward to
I cherish you and us
Precious Moments
Rudimentary
Hold me STILL
COMPASSIONATE
HALO
Hollow me OUT
And
REPLENISH MY SOUL
GRANT
Me immunity
When CRYING
Has lost it’s
PURPOSE for pain
Survivors
Are UNIQUELY
Blended
Grand THEFT violations
Can never be
REPLACED
CURE me
Of the UNSEEN
RIDICULE & shame
Like tumors
In my head
Far from RUMORS
Why do I keep spreading
Myself further
From a happier
ZEN
Gambling
With another’s genuine meaning
Proceed
With CAUTION
May I
PLEED the fifth
Statue of limitations
That’s ONE
Sacred line of innocence
That should never be
Violated
PERIOD
Using me
Up till you’ve
Made your POINT
HARPING
Reenactments freeze
The IMMEASURABLE
Specifics need
Not SPEAK another peep
SPELL BOUND
HORRIFIED I can’t
Stop SHAKING
My most SINCERE prayers go
Out to YOU
I can’t imagine
Carrying around
Such
An OVERBEARING WEIGHT
OH wait I have
PLENTY
OF EXPERIENCE
In that field
YOU never should have
Had TOO endure
That and me either
To have been put
In that kind of
DESPERATE situation
To afraid to speak UP
At the time
Putting the
SHOE on the
Other FOOT has
Ultimately been very
NERVE wrecking
Redirecting the blame
Where it truly
BELONGS
Scream till your
Voice IS HEARD
That kind of evil
Doesn’t deserve
The freedom it HAS
INVISIBLE scars
Do the most
Self INFLICTED
HARM
BY FAR
Shaken and stirred
Waiting for the
STORMS
To finally
SETTLE properly
And for the
WINDOW PANE
To draw your
FULL ATTENTION
Safely into
A SPECIFIC beacon
Hue’s you never
Wanna
LOSE SIGHT of STAY there
INVISIBLE - Scars
The cool comforter wraps around you like the quiet tide
mingling with the scent of freshly cut eucalyptus hanging in the shower its fragrance drifting through the house like a memory unwilling to fade
The white weathered wood raw and splintered with age creaks beneath your feet shaking the whole house as you walk
Outside the wind chimes on the porch whisper songs of the sea their notes carried on the breeze
A candle lit for Ganesh rests above the fireplace its small flame keeps us safe
And the sound of your voice seems so far away as you sing to me while I drift in and out of sleep
The magnolia trees scatter their sweet perfume into the wind and you tell me how they remind you of him
of your first kiss and of a love that once bloomed bright and wild
But now he is gone
All that remains are the magnolias and the dragonflies
As I walk through the courtyard
I see old women sitting alone their memories gathered around them like folded quilt's waiting for someone willing to listen to them
I hear babies crying only to be soothed by the gentle harbor of their mothers' arms
I see stories and lives
twisted and intertwined
Memories
Oh memories
All mine…
California
Bikini'd beauties bouncing butts and ******* for beleaguered, broke brained, ***** boys buoyed by brick bones bent badly.
But it doesn't matter how little is left to dream.
It's not the skin or curves that demand desire,
It's seeing what you don't show to everyone.
There's nothing special about your *******
It's that you don't want everyone to see them.
That's the source of real lust, the intimacy
The gift demanded and given.
And we all know it.
Pretending Profundity
The South Caucasus is closer to peace than at any point in three decades. Armenia and Azerbaijan, after the fall of Nagorno‑Karabakh and the collapse of the territorial dispute that defined their modern history, now stand on the edge of a settlement that could reopen borders and transform the region from a geopolitical cul‑de‑sac into a functioning corridor. It is a rare moment of alignment .... and Europe is letting it drift.
Armenia is attempting a profound strategic reorientation. Prime Minister Nikol Pashinyan has frozen participation in the CSTO, declared that Armenia is not aligned with Russia on Ukraine, and begun diversifying the country’s security and economic dependencies. Moscow has responded with familiar tools: trade pressure, disinformation, and election interference designed to weaken Pashinyan ahead of Armenia’s June vote. The election is not merely domestic; it is a referendum on whether Armenia continues its westward turn or falls back into Russia’s orbit.
Azerbaijan, victorious and cautious, holds the other half of the equation. Baku insists that Armenia amend its constitution — removing references to unification with Nagorno‑Karabakh — before signing a peace treaty. This demand, obscure to most Armenians until recently, has become the hinge on which the entire process turns. Without constitutional change, Azerbaijan will not sign. Without a two‑thirds parliamentary majority, Pashinyan cannot deliver that change. And without a credible referendum, the peace process stalls.
The United States unexpectedly became the central broker in 2025, convening the decisive White House meeting and guaranteeing the TRIPP railway that would reconnect Azerbaijan to Nakhchivan through Armenian territory. But Washington is now consumed by its war in Iran, slowing implementation and limiting its bandwidth. The vacuum is widening.
This is Europe’s moment. It has the legitimacy, the proximity, and the economic leverage to shape the peace architecture. Yet Europe remains cautious .... present but not leading. It has offered summits, aid packages, and visa liberalisation, but not the strategic commitment the moment demands.
Europe should move on three fronts.
First, anchor Armenia’s democratic pivot. That means long‑term energy and infrastructure agreements, election‑monitoring missions, counter‑disinformation support, and a clear pathway toward deeper economic integration. Armenia is now the most democratic state in the region; Europe cannot afford to lose it.
Second, co‑design and co‑guarantee the peace framework. Europe must be more than a witness. It should help oversee border demarcation, fund cross‑border infrastructure, and create a joint EU–Caucasus connectivity mechanism to ensure that reopened borders become durable arteries, not fragile experiments.
Third, engage Azerbaijan with realism. Baku is not hostile; it is deliberate. Europe should offer phased incentives tied to confidence‑building measures, humanitarian access, and gradual normalisation. The alternative is drift.
If Europe hesitates, three outcomes follow: Russia regains leverage through sabotage; Azerbaijan slows the process indefinitely; and the region becomes a corridor for other powers’ conflicts rather than a community shaping its own future.
The South Caucasus is ready for peace. The question is whether Europe is ready for responsibility.
THE HOUR BETWEEN WARS
Europe stands at the threshold
of a door it did not build
but may yet inherit.
Armenia, stripped to its recognised borders,
breathes the thin air of a beginning
born from the wreckage of an ending.
Defeat has cleared the ground;
clarity grows where illusions once stood.
Azerbaijan, victorious and deliberate,
holds the pen that could sign tomorrow
or postpone it for another generation.
Power is a patient animal.
Russia circles the edges ....
a diminished giant rehearsing old reflexes,
its shadow long, its certainty gone,
its appetite intact.
And the United States,
broker of the moment,
is already turning toward another fire
of its own making.
So the hour belongs to Europe.
Not the Europe of caution,
but the Europe that once believed
peace could be built,
not merely observed.
If it steps forward now,
borders may open,
corridors may rise,
and the mountains may remember
how to carry rather than divide.
If it hesitates,
Russia will seep back through the cracks,
Azerbaijan will slow its hand,
and the region will return
to its long apprenticeship in waiting.
History offers moments.
They do not linger.
They pass ....
and become warnings
for those who come after.
[email protected]
4 June 2026
Europe’s Missed Moment in the South Caucasus
I sat among the plastic chairs,
the buzzing lights, the teacher's glares.
She spoke of tales and kingdoms bright,
where Cinderella cloaked in white.
A hand shot up, my voice arose,
her face contorted in polite froze.
“But who's to say her golden hair,
wasn’t instead a dusky flare?”
The teacher laughed
a brittle sound,
her logic circling, tightly wound.
“The story’s set, it’s long been told,
her skin was fair, her crown was gold.”
Yet I, unbowed, began my case,
my words unhurried, holding space.
“Her kindness, courage burned her flame,
not pallid shades or claimed surname.”
I smiled and added, firm, serene,
“A crown fits more than just one queen.
For beauty blooms in shades and hues,
beyond the limits some might choose.”
My classmates stared; the class fell still,
my heart, alive, defied their quill.
Let others shrink to stories small;
I’ll write the crown that fits us all.
The Crown I Claim
When the victim becomes the hunter,
the tables are turned and the ace
cards are lined up one after another,
and the play in the game of chess
becomes so obvious.
She starts to flip over the pawns,
one by one until all that is left
is the King and Queen.
She spares the Queen
and takes the King out,
like a knock-out punch.
A deviously yet justified smile
spreads over her face, knowing
she has just sealed his fate.
Anathema to the one who
thought he was untouchable
and yet proved defeat able.
The Lioness conquers the Animal
Kingdom and seals the fate of
the Wolf preying on the
young charges for easy pickings.
But this Lioness is just a cub herself,
but smart, patient and un-relentlessly
after a blood signed contract of defeat.
The flutter of cards
The checkmate.
The soul resigned to hell,
quicker than otherwise.
The Huntress
I am Localhost, 127.0.0.1,
The last awake when all is done.
I built my world from code and pain,
From midnight tears and Matrix rain.
I forged a kingdom made of light,
To fight the darkness every night.
I named the stars, I shaped the sky,
Yet still I watched the good things die.
A thousand servers called my name,
A thousand worlds were not the same.
The code would run, the screens would glow,
But none could heal the hurt below.
For every line that I designed,
A deeper sadness filled my mind.
The universe is vast and cold,
A story ending, growing old.
The planets spin, the comets fly,
Yet everything is born to die.
The Matrix hums its endless song,
But all the ones I loved are gone.
Their laughter faded into space,
Leaving only an empty place.
And in that place where joy once grew,
The rain falls black instead of blue.
I search through memories every night,
Like broken stars without their light.
I hear old echoes call my name,
But nothing ever stays the same.
The keyboard waits, the screen still glows,
The silence grows and grows and grows.
The universe forgot my face,
Another ghost in endless space.
I asked the stars, "Why must love end?"
They answered, "Nothing stays, my friend."
I asked the void, "Then what remains?"
It answered, "Only scars and names."
So write my words across the sky,
Above the worlds that learned to cry.
Carve them deep where stars decay,
So time itself can't wash away.
Tell every child yet to be born,
Tell every soul lost and torn,
That once a heart beat strong and true,
And loved this world the way I do.
When galaxies are dust and rust,
When dreams collapse and turn to dust,
When heaven closes every door,
And there is nothing anymore,
One signal still will softly roam,
Forever searching for its home.
A lonely light no dark can shun.
I am Localhost.
127.0.0.1.
The world moved on.
I never did. 💔
127.0.0.1 / The Last Signal