I sit alone with thought, as one might face the sea in a wild storm,
watching tide rise and fall as waves stitch themselves into the distant horizon,
looking for reason
a pattern not of answers, but suggestions to what it all means.
My heart, fallen like time-felt dust, fluent in silence,
presses against the sky of night.
There is a pause where nothing waits
but the ache of wanting.

But is it wanting at all,
to know that which is there but we cannot see?
Or just a hunger fed on shadows of stories past?
I look inward while minutes skim twilight and ask myself
does longing hold meaning,
or am I chasing fading smoke across empty waters?
Can my wanting soul truly grasp what the mind denies,
or am I tangled in a web of falling false hope?

I looked to the constellations, not to find myth,
but for questions never answered by books.
Each sound and syllable of starlight now maps a wound I carry
a place absent and void,
where light has left and only memory dwells.
I have stretched my hand all too often,
running fingers over scar
to reach is to lose the clarity of surface.

Yet, does losing clarity mean losing truth?
Is doubt the thief of certainty, or its keeper?
I feel the mind’s sharp edge slicing the quiet in me,
cutting away comfort, cutting away belief,
cutting away illusions I once wore like skin.
But the soul protests, whispering of a depth
that reason cannot fathom, touch, or name.

It is not despair—oh, not yet.
For something unseen walks behind my wondering,
my elusive questionings.
Yet quietly it does not speak,
only shifts the air just enough
for me to feel the ground shake beneath each footstep,
to remind me:
the world listens,
even in its hush.

Is this just self-delusion’s gentle hand? I often ask myself.
While I walk and wrestle with silence all too often
is it a veil, a prison, or a gift?
A curse with a poet’s name?
And when the world’s noise swells like storm-lit waves,
drowning the quiet tides I seek
the clamour of scrolling screens,
the fleeting truths of countless tongues,
each beckoning with noise and urgent distractions,
pulling eyes and hands away
from the core meaning of the question

Do I blame the noise, or my own tired will?
Is the hunger real, or just an echo,
born from fear of emptiness in this life?
Does the mind protect me from falling,
or chain me to a prison of doubt?

I feel the weight of a thousand shallow fires surround me,
fires burning bright but never burning deep,
consuming only the surface grasses,
never touching roots that drink the dark or consume the soul.

Can I be certain there are roots at all?
Or do I dream of darkness as a place to hide
from the blinding truths daylight demands?

And if I run from truth, do I deserve it?
If I question belief, does it still shelter me?
Is the skeptic in me the truer seeker
or just the coward afraid of being wrong?

In searching for those roots,
I begin to question the impulse to doubt within myself—
whether suspicion is itself a crafty disguise
worn by the part of my soul too tender to trust anything.
I let my uncertainty become a song sung high, a rhythm,
a sweeping tide rather than a wall.

But still, my mind screams for answers,
demands proof in logic and reason,
while my soul waits, patient, in the dark,
offering only feeling,
and cloning faith from flickers of hope.

Somewhere in this universe, along the trail of quiet stars,
I feel drawn by a pressure not forced,
not fierce, but firm—like wind knowing
how to lean without ever bruising the grass.

I start to believe in a gaze
that does not pierce but softens,
a regard not veiled by fear,
but shielded from being misunderstood.
I name it presence,
though it bears no name at all.

Yet every time I close my eyes and find the strength to reach for this presence in shattered hope,
my mind begins to whisper truths: illusion, mistake, desire.
The mind plays tricks, after all.
How can I trust what I cannot see?
How do I find faith when this doubt is the louder voice
wait—the only voice I’ve come to know?
How do I find belief when logic and reason
scream something more real than anything else?

There are days so still they crack with beauty,
their hollowness shaped like an answer never spoken.
Not absence, not longing—just the aftermath
of having needed too long without touch.
My thoughts become fixed as a fast,
a hunger refined into light
before darkness comes crawling.

But still, every new horizon that comes
shifts with each call to reason,
and the questions that remain in the silence
scatter every small truth I find.
Now obscured by the drifting shadows of meaning and inner noise,
my tired mind and weary faith is what
a lost ship adrift in a raging storm,
in a sea without north, nor compass, nor shore.

The more I search, the more the sky expands before my eyes
not into clarity,
but into vast unknowns.
Each star, a beacon of a new mystery.
Each silence,
a deeper riddle I dare not solve.

“I am mine,” whispers the voice in my spine,
“and all I carry is tension made radiant.
I am the pause before choosing,
and the weight of choosing after.
I do not stir war,
but I know the balance between stillness and strike.
I am not breath,
but the moment before breath begins again.”

Life—neither oracle nor flame—beckons,
not with certainty,
but with distance:
a journey older than any maps,
toward a cradle that might hold
either a poem,
or an echo
that once thought itself love.

And so I trace my star-thirsted mind,
through night’s vast tangle and the static hum,
seeking a core beneath the glittering distractions
a light that neither blinds
nor fades.

I learn that questions have no end,
and answers only open doors,
that true seeking is surrender,
and the deepest knowing
is to be lost.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                    A Visit to the (Euphemism)

             With Praise for The Sacred White Bowl of Our People

Several times each day the call of sanitation
Requires of each of us a digestive salutation
Within an appropriate private station
For needful purgation and evacuation

All of mankind, of every land and nation
Even Thracian, Haitian, Croation, Dalmatian
Must discreetly retire for a brief duration
To return to the earth a small donation

In this we must conclude, in explanation
From the indignity of the situation
With no exception, and no aberration
That Man is not the glory of God’s Creation

(All employees must wash their hands before returning to work)

Slumped against a wall
Around the back of a
Home,

A week without a rest
and just
A lifetime to
Go.

A golden crown rests heavily
on my head,
Achievement rests light on
My heart,

Bracing for the second when
I start
Seeing stars.

Success is sacrifice,
And sacrifice is pain.
What is a winner without
A life of cruel shame?

Happiness is temporary,
Climbing the ranks is
Life.

I look at fate,
Fate looks back at me,
And I accept the hardship
with

A smile.

Sometimes, as I walk
I pick up a piece of the earth
to carry it with me
mere dirt, and yet
I hold it so
carefully
as if it could break if I dropped it.

I measure its weight in the palm of my hand
and wonder if anubis would find my soul this light
and let it crumble between my fingers
and watch it stain my skin.

I wonder if, in my life
I have left any mark
as significant as that.

SENSATIONS

It's summer, full of hope, to have a good time,
in that torrid air that undresses us as we sleep.
Time to spend time with ourselves,
in that time of floating in the water of a full bathtub.
Luxurious details, whims that don't cost much yet,
small luxuries to pamper ourselves, with the luxury of time.
That time that always leaves without being able to catch it,
in the summer, where there are rays of the warm sun.
On those days to enjoy reading,
in my hermetic worlds,
leafing through and savoring
those books or poems,
stored away.
Time to open
books, letters or doors.
In that world that is paused,
in the August of another year, perhaps,
where each day is a gift.
Dreaming of beaches, with those wild islands,
dreaming between uncovered sheets,
in my dreamed African savanna,
in a very white house.
In my Paradise
I dream,
of incredible
days,
in my gray life,
with small luxuries.


My secret luxuries,
at home, without going out,
poor miseries,
of being very poor
and rich in dreams.
Between saving every day,
and dreaming without measure,
dreaming of living a little,
and just like that, the holidays are gone.
While I collect sensations,
when the winds caress me,
that world that has no price
Among the jungle of my little garden
among waters that fall on me.
Fountains that make me happy
those sensitive days,
that no one charges for,
and which are just that,
my secret
luxuries.
Sensation
of caressing,
the days and nights,
that something no one else
can afford.
Except for an outcast,
envied for being rich,
in emotions of the soul.
In a rich neighborhood,
one more poor person,
in his house,
envied,
for being
like that.

I feel like I have a superpower
when I descend into this empire of words
like a descent into a crypt of bones
yet it opens, like a flower, to my touch
to a world, hidden, a wonderland
of beauty, of passionate lust for
creation itself

I expect the lights to flicker
as the language tilts from my tongue
like lilting spells cast in ancient dreams
did they have power after all?
it flows over my fingertips
like honey, thick and sweet
nourishing, an ambrosia of life
and the purest of expression

vulnerability
cloaked in daggers of sharp curses
and disguised by images of broken glass
yet soft, underneath my feet, once I tread beyond the trees
I walk into the forest
and it welcomes me
it beckons me
further into the glade, I sink and
it's like slipping deeper underwater
yet I feel like I'm only breathing more air.

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