"unspoken storms"

Still waters conceal unspoken storms,  
Not from apathy, but a need for calm.  
Eyes don’t always radiate cries within—  

Some truths resist the need to begin.  
Let them talk, assume, decide—  
In silence, whole galaxies reside.

"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.





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© Now, Frederick Kesner

Éclair My Heart

Fill me up with custard’s glow,  
soft as secrets whispered low.  
Chocolate coat our midnight vows,  
each bite a bow that time allows.  

Glossy tease of vanilla sighs—  
declare your love in pastry cries.





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"Croissant of Confusion"

Your layers spiral inward,  
a buttery maze without a map—  
I bite the edge, get lost in curves,  
crumbs falling like questions.  

Is it pastry or pastry’s dream?  
I’m too entranced to care which.

"first bruise"

Streetlamps flicker,  
echoing their silence.  
The chill—  
not just in the air,  
but between glances  

that once burned.  

Footsteps dissolve  
into memory's fog,  
while love  
learns its first  
bruise.

"The Empire‐Skeptic and History Class"

Your Aeneas builds an empire
on exile and sorrow—what of the cities
he conquers, the peoples displaced?

Transformation has a cost.
By glorifying his ‘spark,’
we risk overlooking the suffering
ignited in his wake.

"right here, right now"

all we have is right now—
that morning you dropped your umbrella
and puddles burst into applause

looking for the right person—
then seeking the right time—
chasing seconds like fireflies

pinpointing the right place:
location, location, location—
our compasses spinning free

so here’s the thesis: home lives in joined footsteps—
come wander with me
when all we’ve got is right here... right now



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