Lies are like the man
Who planted a briar patch
And sat down to watch it grow.
Night and day, he watched it grow.
It came up with tendrils tangling
And suddenly he knew
He should have moved his chair.

I am the ocean, some call me the sea
I have many names in different languages
I  was one of the first things to be created
Life upon earth began inside of me

I have been around for so long, I have lost track
Of how many millions of years or even billions of years
Many creatures were born and lived inside of me
So many are lost forever, never to be seen

Man has been fascinated by my might and power
He has travelled upon my back to far-off lands
And if I am in an angry mood, I drag all
Who rides on my back into my belly, deep down

I was there before the land was created, long before
I can swallow all of the land, ask the ones inside of me
I am not an angry, menacing monster, please note
I am the sea, a massive collection of all the waters

When the river empties itself into me, it trembles
Water is like me, but my mighr terrifies it
Yet the river knows there is no turning back
It empties itself into me and becomes a part of me

"The Impossible Turn"



To hold what harms, to face without flinching,
                                      to shape warmth from wire.
To drop the name, to meet the eyes, to let edges soften.
To burn the mould, to kneel in ash, to rise listening.
Not conquest. Not perfection. Only forward motion.





.
© Now, Frederick Kesner

She said it like a memory
she didn't care to keep
as if saying it aloud
would finally empty it from her chest.

He was once hers.
She was once his.
Two sentences with a shelf life,
said like an obituary
for something that died
before they even noticed it was sick.

There was no crescendo,
no last dramatic scene.
Just a series of quiet exits,
a laugh that didn't reach the eyes,
a message left on read,
a promise that showed up late
and never stayed.

And he?
He didn't even flinch.
Didn't ask for a second chance,
didn't fight for the version of her
he once thought he deserved.

Because maybe he knew.
That everything she said
was the echo of his own undoing.
And maybe he was tired,
not of her,
but of being the man
who only learns when it's too late.

He walks around now,
shoulders light,
heart hollow,
cold, but not frozen.
The kind of cold
you only feel after too many nights
staring at the ceiling,
wondering why the silence
started sounding like home.

And if you ask him what happened,
he'll say this with a calm so sharp
it could cut glass:

“Nothing.
Everything just went the way it always does.”

Feel like I'm in a glass house
Brain is tethered by wire
& ephemeral fog

Id hug every one of my enemies if it meant salvation
Id ride into dusk unadorned.
I am truly at a loss

& so it goes