I am getting old and my back creaks,
But I refuse to slow my pace,
With a mischievous grin, I embrace the years,
Living life with a touch of grace.

I dance in the rain, I sing out loud,
I wear bright colours, I stand out in a crowd,
I laugh at the rules, I break the mould,
Forgetting the notion of growing old.

Wrinkles are badges of adventures had,
Each grey hair a tale of fun,
I chase my dreams with reckless abandon,
Under the golden sun.

I climb the mountains, I sail the seas,
I savour each moment, I do as I please,
For life is too short to play it safe,
I live with passion; I live with faith.

I make new friends, I cherish the old,
I share my stories, both brave and bold,
I dance through life with a youthful heart,
Aging disgracefully, a work of art.

So let my back creak, let my hair turn grey,
I'll live each moment, come what may,
For in this journey, wild and free,
Aging disgracefully is the way to be.

It’s that time once more.
Meeting between pastel colors.
I’m happy and free.
Singing our song together.
When bluebirds meet
on wings of daffodils
there is hope all over.
Birth of new beginnings.


Shell ✨🐚

It's the solitary nights
I cherish the most.
The silence and shadows,
the thoughts and theories-
these are the things that
keep this heart beating-
this is what it's all about.

Looking up at the treetops kissing the heavens,
I catch a fleeting glimpse of the night sky,
Through limbs and leaves entwined,
Dancing a silent waltz to the rhythm of a gentle breeze.

The shadows drifting down from above ripple softly beneath my feet,
The forest's lifeblood pulses through its veins,
As the restless winds quicken this delicate dance,
We, too, once knew these steps of three.

Once a gust, now barely a whisper,
The harmony quietens and an absence lingers,
Exhausted branches now lie still in silence,
As I gaze beyond their crowded reach.

Into the deepest, darkest blue,
My sight rests on our cherished string of stars,
Hoping they are reaching your eyes too.

You wake up in the morning - and all the lights still work
No circuit breakers tripped
And if raining, no drips on the wrong side of the window sill.
And blessing.  Just blessing.  
Just Everything.

Of our common grief,
We spoke.
And when tears had dried - not gone,
I woke.
And you took my hand.

Miles along the sounding sands
We strayed
And then when cliffs above us rose
I gently lay
With you and looked my love.

Under summer's midnight moon  
There was truth to be again
I saw you clear
And buried in you, words of hope
I had long forgot.

Then came the sea’s long, withdrawing roar
Its strife  
Dissolved where breath and salt and longing poured.  
No knife  
Of time could part us there:  
We made love, raw as prayer.

When did I stop being a Christian?  
Was it recent, a slow unraveling thread,  
Or years ago, when innocence first bled,  
Or was it when I was just a child—  
A child who learned to hide,  
To lock the questions deep inside?  

I wonder now, in the stillness of night,  
If I ever truly wore that name,  
A child of God, with hands to pray—  
Or if it was all just a game,  
A story told to make me whole,  
While I searched for pieces to fill my soul.  

I preferred the cold whispers in the dark,  
The voices of ghosts, who never turned away,  
Their secrets wrapped in shadows,  
A quiet comfort in their disarray.  
They never judged, never shamed,  
They simply listened as I called their name.  

The demons, too, had something real,  
A certain power, a certain fire,  
That spoke to something raw inside,  
A hunger that matched my desire.  
They didn't try to fix my wounds,  
But held them gently, like forgotten tunes.  

And in the light, I found no grace,  
Only empty words, a hollow space.  
Pastors spoke of love and light,  
But I couldn't find it in their eyes—  
Only promises that never met the sky,  
Only answers I knew were lies.  

When did I stop believing, I ask—  
Was it when I first saw the cracks?  
Or was it always there, a flicker, a breath,  
That pushed me toward the edge of death?  
I no longer know what it means to pray,  
Or if I ever truly did, anyway.  

I am the child who wandered away,  
Chasing things that didn't stay,  
Now left with echoes, silent and cold,  
Wondering where I lost my hold.  
The ghosts and demons are still my friends,  
But do they heal? Or just pretend?  

So here I stand, with hands unmet,  
A soul that’s tired, but can't forget—  
The longing for something pure,  
The search for something to endure.  
Maybe I stopped being a Christian long ago,  
But the question still haunts me—*does anyone know?