I should be indestructible
Your blood surges through my veins like a wrathful river that refuses to decelerate
I am insecure and voiceless when I shouldn’t be
You were Joan of Arc on her final mission
I am industrious in everything I do
You were a concrete statue of Atlas bearing the pressure of the world on your shoulders
I refuse to tolerate mistreatment at the hands of fools.
You were Bette Davis in her golden era standing up for what you believed
I love my kids with every molecular fiber of my being
Because you couldn’t
I tell them everything I adore about them
Because you couldn’t
I hug them so tight I can feel their ribs about to snap
Because you couldn't
I tell them I love them to the moon and back AND to the sun
Because you wouldn’t
I show my kids how much I love them in the simplest ways
Because you couldn’t and wouldn’t
I forgive you
Because I am a mother
And I can’t stop loving you

Golden orchid how you glow
In the hue of this mornings eye
You are a transient beauty
Blossoming August sweetness
How you transfer your life to me
Patterns of inertia somehow

Golden numbers how i paint you in the sand
How you radiate the senses
Awakening the beauty of the Spiral
Tangible to have such a sense of the  
  divine
Comes across at such lofty heights
Milk & honey rich; and into the sweet  
  they land

Golden ratio how you encircled me
Such implosion of the serenity
Lives gruel on in sanctuaries of sadness
A pool of hidden mathematics unwind
The **** & pull of occams razor
Colour me in six senses, secrets burn bright on this new eternity

There were two travelers who once found each other at a crossroads.
Both carried broken maps, torn by storms and years of wandering,
and for a time, they walked together.

They promised, or so the man thought,
that if the roads grew too heavy,
they would pause, mend their maps,
and meet again when they were whole.
To him, it was not the end,
but a waiting place,
a promise left under the shade of a tree.

But to her, it was farewell.
Not cruel, not heartless,
simply the closing of a chapter she had already read through.
And so while he lingered beneath the tree,
believing she would return,
she had already turned toward another path,
her footsteps steady, her gaze fixed forward.

He did not hate her for this.
How could he?
They were both free to walk where they wished.
But as he watched her figure fade into the distance,
he could not help but wonder,
how could love that once felt like fire in the veins
be set down so quickly, as if it were nothing more than ash?

He searched his chest for answers.
Perhaps he had carried their love as a seed,
waiting for spring,
while she had carried it as a bloom,
beautiful, fleeting, and already finished.

And so the man stayed by the tree,
haunted by the weight of a promise
he now realized was only his.

I never write about love.
I just write about what happens after.

Because writing it in black and white
would mean it’s real—
and I’ve never had real, no matter how hard I tried.

And let’s be honest,
I don’t believe it’s real.

You can’t force real,
because real is the little things—
the acts of love.

Like showing up without being asked,
loving without being begged,
standing up for you
in rooms where everyone else sits silent.

It’s the way they make space for all of you,
shining light on the parts the world
would have told you to hide.

I’ve never seen it.
No acts of love.
No one showing up.
No loving without being begged.
No one standing up.
No one making space.
No light shining on all my flaws.

So I don’t write about love.
Because I don’t believe it’s real.

In the land of the dead,
So much red is shed.
The land brims with fabrication,
Darkness dwelling in despair and deception.

Inferno looks down on this land,
All green has turned into sand.
The aquamarines then start to dissolve,
The contamination has yet no resolve.

Empty vessels move around,
The land somehow keeps going round and round.
The vessels throng in institutions of make-believe;
Stylites filling the vessels with fake believe.

None shall be safe from the hands of the serpent,
Gibbons keep pulling each other's tails mordant.
Trying to cut the rhea's wings by force,
Poking around the eyes of papilio xuthus without remorse.

The sheep and tiger **** hand in hand,
The dove and eagle fly land to land.
The jaguar and sloth sleep in the sand,
All of it is now disband.

The more you feel here, the more you suffer,
At a state the heart can never recover.
Melancholy will gloom your mind,
No escape, here, you are confined.

Ow who shall save thou?
No augur is coming now.
Damascus is filled with cannons,
Deaths in Bethlehem are now canons.

But walks in this land a creature,
With all these peculiar and extraordinary feature.
Something so unbothered by these mess,
Something that could not have cared less.

Nobody knows where it came from,
None aware that it doesn't succumb.
It crawls around this empty land.
Avoiding the ushers as it stand.

Can this creature show them change?
Can it be the answer to rearrange?
Will it be their savior?
Is its reticence the proper behavior?

Is it telling them to mind their own beeswax?
Or does it not care about the land's collapse?
Is it the land's protector?
Or maybe its annihilator?

All they can do is hope and pray,
That it doesn't consider them as prey.
Or maybe it doesn't want to be adored,
Does it want the land to be restored?

Maybe it will revivify this wretched place.
Or maybe it will obliterate its trace.
Or maybe both paths are the same!
Only it knows what's its aim!