Why do we go back to our saddest moments
when we need comfort
Maybe to bathe in tears...
a baptism
of rage
to blow the sides out of sorrow
to come to terms
with helplessness?

To get someone
to hear
maybe to listen
to loss?

Weaving a web—yet fragile,
entrapment unseen, a delight.

Mystic dots connect the void,
a shadowed feminine archetype.

So, dark, entangled in
instincts and desire, it walks
through living illusions,
performing the ritual.

A silk gift of flies,
a vibrating dance, the abdomen’s pulse
but what she truly wants?
It's you!
The beloved offering!

The black widow presence,
a thirst that devours itself.
No web remains to protect
only the surreal subconscious,
the stuckness of web-death.

Fatal union: to consume—or be consumed.

I think I’m a line
and you’re a squiggle.
When I met you,
you talked—
self-made audition —
and I looked to see your
real.
You professed yourself
happy
to support me
in my steady line
whilst I supported them,
the little ones.
Things worked,
but you ironed yourself flat
just to sit alongside.
Then your line bent,
became tired
from pretend.
It wanted bold and unpredictable swirls,
jagged edges!
Mine wanted to
gently sway at the most,
glide like a calm, smiley river
for them.
We would have been easier
with the real
you-shape
from the beginning.
If our lines
went in the
same direction.
Why contort yourself?

Poets come.

Poets go.

Poems remain—

left behind for someone

to read,

to admire,

and

to inspire

the next generation

to pick up the pen.

There exists an ocean

of words—

beautiful and meaningful.

Yet, sometimes

someone finds

just one word,

powerful enough

to turn a life

upside down.

some people seem to carry heaven
in the way they walk—
effortless, luminous,
as though their purpose
is to remind us of grace

i have not known such ease
my lessons came
through breaking bones of the spirit
through the heavy silence
of unsaid words
through desires that cut too deep

and still—
i do not curse the falling
i do not despise the storm

because what it left in me
wasn’t bitterness
but the stubborn clarity
that love,
even when it burns down,
remains the only treasure
worth guarding