A raw and redemptive,
a jagged lullaby wrapped
in grit and grace.

Confronting primal origins
of beauty, tracing how chaos,
trauma, and history's rough edges
are not just background noise,

but the very instruments
in life’s symphony.
Pain isn’t just a prelude to joy—
it’s part of the composition.

This poem, insistent:
what is beautiful isn’t
in spite of the brokenness,
but because of it.

That’s where its power hits hardest—
where rock and roll meets requiem,
and we stand, animal, mostly human,
made whole through noise and nerve.





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“Sun Between Us”

We met in the hush between semesters,
your hoodie up against the fluorescent cold.
I was Endymion—sleepless in a dream
you hadn’t meant to share.

You, Selene with earbuds in,
moonlit glow from your cracked phone screen,
texted back too fast and never what I meant to hear.

Helios was your morning shift—
his gold-flecked smile at the café,
the one who always got your order right,
who kissed with daylight precision.

I asked if you ever missed the dark.
You said you liked it
but needed the sun to feel real again.

Still, you’d find me
between the blinds at midnight,
pulling me in with your gravity
then vanishing at dawn.

I wrote you poems you left unread.
You sent me playlists I played to sleep.
We loved in pieces—
like sky through city scaffolding.

And though I knew
I’d lose you to a brighter orbit,
I stayed still— a moonshadow boy
waiting to glow again in your reflected fire.

"Echoes Between the Hours"

The day unwinds its tethered threads,
pulling time through quiet hands.
Each moment lingers just long enough
to whisper its name before fading.

Shadows stretch along the walls,
soft reminders of where light once stood,
and the air streams—low, expectant—
its breath heavy with something unsaid.

The soil stirs, not from footsteps,
but from the weight of pause.
Roots stretch deeper, seeking
waters below the earth's silence.

A single crow arcs across the sky,
its call dissolving into distance,
its flight a question unanswered—
a curve that never quite resolves.

And in this fleeting space,
where hours turn and fold like tides,
what remains are the hands reaching outward,
what lingers is the ache— waiting, still.



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