The petals open,
fragile as the thought of ending,
and the bloom sways,
unaware of the silence
growing around it.


Each breath is a weight,
pressing against the ribs,
like soil folding into the earth
underneath an endless sky.


The scent of death lingers
in the softness of the petals,
a sweetness too sharp,
too final.
It smells like surrender,
like the last exhale
before the body falls still.


The flower unfolds,
its beauty sharp as grief,
each layer a quiet plea
for release.
It opens with the same quiet violence
that consumes the soul,
waiting for a moment
when the pressure
becomes too much
to bear.


In the fading light,
you watch the petals curl,
and wonder if they, too,
wish to escape
the weight of their own bloom.


And yet, it's peaceful—
a slow descent
into the dark soil,
where the pressure finally stops,
and the bloom fades,
as all things must.

Oh, humble pen,
You are the voice of my silent thoughts,
A river of ink that flows with my dreams.
In your slender form,
Lies the power to birth worlds,
To carve emotions into paper's skin,
To whisper the secrets of my soul.


What are you, but a vessel of words?
Yet, within you, lives the spark of creation.
You dance across the page,
Trailing ideas like the stars in the night sky,
Binding them in the constellations of my mind.


Do you not see, oh simple pen,
The weight you bear?
More than just ink and metal,
You hold the essence of my being,
The dreams I dare not speak,
The fears I cannot name,
The love I yearn to share.


But what is love, without your gentle touch? 
Without you, the words remain trapped, 
Unformed, unspoken, 
Like a songbird caged within my heart. 


And yet, you are silent, 
Your power dormant until called upon, 
Resting in my hand, waiting, 
For the moment when thought meets ink, 
And the world shifts, 
From nothing to something, 
From silence to symphony. 


Oh, pen, do you know your worth? 
In your simplicity, you hold infinity, 
A universe within each stroke, 
A life within each line. 


And as you lie there, resting, 
Do you dream of the stories yet to be told? 
Do you yearn for the touch of my hand, 
To bring forth the tales locked within my heart? 
Or do you wait in quiet anticipation, 
For the next breath, the next thought, 
The next journey we shall embark on together? 


Oh, pen, You are more than just a tool, 
You are a companion, a confidant, 
The keeper of my deepest truths, 
The bridge between my mind and the world. 

 
In you, I find solace, 
In you, I find strength, 
In you, I find my voice. 


And so, I honor you, humble pen, 
For in your ink, I am reborn, 
With each word, 
each line, 
I become, 
I am, 
I write.

She stands at the edge of the grove,
barefoot in the soft, damp earth.
The sky has darkened, an ink-stained veil,
and the air is heavy with whispers
of things not yet spoken.

He steps from the shadows,
the pomegranate cradled in his hand,
as if it were a heart still beating.
Its skin glints like polished blood,
each curve a promise she does not understand.

He smiles—not with his mouth, but his eyes,
the kind of smile that unravels secrets.
He holds out the fruit, the distance between them
as thin as a thread pulled taut.
“Try it,” he says. “It’s sweet as summer rain.”

She hesitates, her fingers trembling
above its smooth, red skin,
caught between the impulse to reach,
to know, to taste—and the warning,
some echo of a voice she barely remembers.

“Just a taste,” he breathes,
and his voice is the rustle of leaves,
the call of something deeper than words.
She presses her thumb into the fruit,
and it yields, a dark, red river
running down her wrist.

He watches as she lifts the seeds
to her mouth, her lips stained
in a shade she’s never worn before.
The burst of juice, sharp and sweet,
washes over her tongue—a flood, a fever.

And she feels it then, the shift—
the earth beneath her is no longer soft,
but hard and cold, like stone.
The taste of the pomegranate lingers,
the sweetness turning to ash,
something bitter lodged in her throat.

He steps closer, his hand on her cheek,
a gesture almost tender.
“You wanted this,” he says,
and she knows he’s right, though she cannot say why.

The grove is silent, the night deepening,
the stars like distant eyes watching.
She looks at him, and then at the empty husk
in her hand, the seeds scattered at her feet
like drops of blood on snow.

She does not speak.
There is nothing left to say.
Only the taste, the lingering memory
of sweetness, and the slow, heavy beat
of something lost.

I was shaped by a quiet ache,
a hollow that stretches with each breath,
a yearning seeded long before I had words
to name it.

There’s a pulse beneath my skin,
a slow, relentless rhythm,
like waves reaching for a shore
they’ve never touched.
It stirs at dusk,
when shadows lengthen
and the world slips into silence.

I’ve felt it, the flicker of something distant,
a glow like a match struck in darkness,
faint but alive,
a promise of warmth
in the chill of an empty room.

I dream of a place I’ve never seen,
its edges blurred, fading as I reach—
a moment that hovers, suspended
just beyond waking.
There’s a voice there,
not mine but familiar,
whispering of things yet to come,
of an end to the waiting.

The night is long and still,
its weight presses down on me,
a shroud that I wear
even in daylight.
I move through it, restless,
my hands outstretched,
searching for something
to fill the space inside.

I was born with this thirst,
a quiet, endless pull
toward the unknown,
like a moth drawn to a light
it can never hold.

And so I wander,
eyes fixed on the horizon,
chasing the faint glow that flares
only when the dark surrounds me.
I linger at the edge,
listening for a call
that I have waited lifetimes to hear.

The emptiness remains,
a companion, an old friend,
its hunger a reminder
of all the things I have yet to find.
I carry it with me, this quiet thirst,
unsated, unanswered,
as the dawn creeps in
and the world stirs to life.

Under the silvered light of a thousand moons,
Where shadows stretch like whispered truths,
We begin our dance, a waltz of souls,
Through valleys deep, where time unfolds.

Hand in hand, we cross the plains,
Of joy and sorrow, love's refrain,
Your touch, a breath upon my skin,
A promise made, a life within.

Our footsteps echo through the years,
A cadence soft, dispelling fears,
In every rise, in every fall,
We find our rhythm, we heed love's call.

Through storm and sun, through night and day,
Our hearts beat in a boundless sway,
Each twirl, a memory, rich and pure,
A bond unbroken, strong, secure.

We dance on cliffs where eagles soar,
And down in depths where oceans roar,
The world a stage beneath our feet,
In every moment, life complete.

The seasons change, the years grow old,
Yet in your arms, I never fold,
Through winter's chill or summer's blaze,
In your eyes, I find my gaze.

We spin through realms both dark and bright,
In endless circles, day and night,
And when the stars above us fade,
We'll dance in shadows, unafraid.

For love, my dear, knows no demise,
It only deepens, never dies,
A fire eternal, burning strong,
Through every dusk, through every dawn.

We'll dance on through the silent night,
Through dreams unseen, beyond all sight,
And when the world falls still and quiet,
Our hearts will keep a secret riot.

For in this dance, we find our truth,
An ageless vow, eternal youth,
No end, no start, just endless grace,
In every step, a love embraced.

And when the final curtain falls,
When silence wraps these ancient halls,
We'll dance into the great unknown,
Two shadows in a twilight zone.

Yet even then, beyond the veil,
Our love will rise, it will not pale,
For love, you see, it transcends time,
An endless waltz, a sacred rhyme.

So take my hand, we'll dance once more,
Through every sky, through every shore,
In life, in death, we'll find our way,
In love, forever, we shall stay.