It's a reality when it is observed
It is unreal if no one sees
Even imaginary is unreal
but feels as if it is not.
If real is not real, why do I feel
we are running to acquire nothing
Are we onto something being
driven to see nothing sticks for long enough
If what I have doesn't make me happy
I manifest things with great yearning
But when I acquire, it just loses its lustre
Becomes painfully ordinary, are we onto anything?

we are participating in this life
It is real or fictitious, maybe both
we perceive it in our mind
Likely we have different insights
The echoes of our actions in a fleeting sound,
We bark out like a wounded hound.
We chase the shadows, of a promised light,
And grasp at substance, that dissolves in night.
The questions linger, in this hollow space,
Is meaning woven, or a fleeting grace?
Perhaps the journey, is the only truth we find, we are onto nothing,
A constant searching, of a restless mind.

She planted small hopes
in the cracks of a dying world—
timid sprouts, fragile but defiant,
pushing through the ash.

Even as the sky forgets the sun,
her dirt-scored hands
remember the language of survival.
A faint stir rises within the earth—
roots quivering beneath barren soil,
aching for water's warm touch.

The air hangs thick,
against the cold truths
of metal machines—
her ears strain for warmth,
her hands sink into the ground,
seeking a quiet song.

The soil clings—ancient, enduring,
unbroken by decay.
She kneels, and in that moment,
the dirt softens beneath her—
It cradles her hope,
a green breath
in a place the sky forgot.

And still, she moves,
as if her breath
might wake the heavens—
as if the softness of her hope
could dispel the dark.

I stand in the hollow of night,
where silence drapes like a second skin—
thick, unmoving, a wound
stitched shut with my own hands.

The Keeper kneels beside me,
palms open, as if gathering dust.
Her ribs are a locked door, where
she keeps pain from harming others—
her voice an echo she swallowed.
Pain nests in the crook of her collarbone,
tucked away where no one can reach,
where even the wind forgets to look.

The Bleeder is near too—
a storm dragging its nails across the dark.
He spits out rage in poison-dipped syllables—
the night flinches beneath his breath.
He is all jagged, all reckless, all out—
the kind of flame that does not warm,
only burns, only consumes.

The Keeper whispers,
words soft as a bouquet of flowers—
a quiet ache—a heavy toll for just one.
The Bleeder snarls, that’s all he knows,
shaking his fists at the sky,
as if anger alone can unmake the past.

I am between them—
one foot in silence, ready to cover
one foot in fire, ready to lunge.
I feel them both inside me—
the silence that suffocates,
the fury that devours.

And I wonder—
which one will I become,
when the night finally calls my name.

there are not enough words there to articulate
but listen closely to what I am about to say
I feel crushing pangs of sadness inside my heart
and there is no fathomable cause for it to hurt
There is nothing that is so deeply wounding in life
I am solemnly waiting, for answers for my feelings
Contemplating how to piece and what to change
The thoughts go everywhere, solution out of range.

It's  so much better
(let this be said):
be a happy fool
than a miserable sage