The day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla was upon us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.

From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all, like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.

Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound). An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light revealed that mild twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.

My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts stirred to wrath.

“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”

A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?

Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV

I find myself here
Under the sycamore rain,
Again, loving you.

I realized I pushed too far
Inside nature
Stepping over icy boughs
Green needles frozen in time
My heart pounding
Exhausted of the cycle.
There are no birds circling above,
There are no words of comfort.
Just a quiet calm broken up
By the clicks and arthritic pops
Of heavy limbs and twisted gnarled
Fingers holding me in place.
I sit and smile at the crunching in the snow
Remembering the wonderful sound
My boots made trudging back home
For hot chocolate and warmth.

Every day, I open my reality:
I wake up.
I feel.
I choose.
I decide—
knowing so many others
are crying behind the scenes,
and their trembling is raw.

Pain isn’t consolation—
it reinforces the structure of fragility
when the towers are crumbling.

At the core, we return,
squeezing black-and-white struggles
into our veins, into our memories.

To the only home
we never left
our own body.
The first and the last.

Quote By: Sofia Rojas
The wrong person will find you at peace then later leave you in pieces
The right person will find you when broken and help you find peace again
Both are necessary in the development and learning of your existence.


So many years of trying to find the right partner
all I got was pain and heartache, where did I go wrong ?  
Guess I spend too much time trying to protect my armor  
lost in my loneliness I always felt like I didn't belong;

Then I learned to self soothe and sing my own lullabies
stitched my hopes to trust and prayed him in, Wow ! Who knew !
That the right one would come along and hear my cries  
yes he came to my rescue, right on cue !

Sometimes we need to find many Mister Wrongs
before we can finally find the Mister Right  
It doesn't mean we failed,
it just means your prayer never got mailed....

lying on a road of cars,
empty beneath the sky of stars
I ask the God who made them,
He who said do not fear
Who am I?
Where go I?
Why am I here?

My God, oh my God
I feel so endlessly lost
My God, oh my God
Neither leave me nor forsake me
Whatever my cost

Flames lick the edges of a city that never sleeps,
where dreams are charred, and hope smolders in the ash.
The night is a canvas of ember and smoke,
painted by hands unseen, indifferent.

In the alleys, shadows dance to the crackling tune,
while sirens wail like distant, mourning lovers.
The air, thick with the scent of despair,
chokes the whispers of those who dare to breathe.

Neon signs flicker, their gaudy promises
melting away in the heat of reality.
The boulevard, once a river of aspirations,
now a barren wasteland of forgotten footsteps.

Yet amidst the inferno, a lone figure stands,
eyes reflecting the chaos, unblinking.
A poet, perhaps, or just a fool,
scribbling verses on the back of a scorched receipt.

“Fires, fires everywhere,” he writes,
“and not a drop to douse the soul.”
The city burns, but he remains,
finding beauty in the blaze,
and solace in the ruin.