~
I like the number 2,
so much in fact
I like it twice,
as in 22.

Now 2+2 equals 4,
but some say 2+2 equals 5,
It's quite the moral conundrum.

Still 5 is a cardinal, a prime,
why the Pythagoreans
thought of 5
as the marriage
between heaven and earth.

I empathize with 5 though,
for that's a lot of pressure
to put on a single solitary digit.

But I think I like him too,
he's a friend of 10,
which reminds me of
fingers, toes and Bo Derek.

But let's get back to 2,
which supposedly is company,
and 3, you see, is a crowd,
yet odd first and foremost
--Mersenne knew best, I guess.

Which brings me to 1,
small, but positive,
coveted, but united,
a face of multiple identities.

And should any other number
devise against it,
they would have no
success at all
--none, zero.

To be honest,
I think 1 likes 2,
and vice versa,
they're a complimentary couple
--both highly dutiful
and attracted to each other.

After all, it's said, "Someone may overpower
one alone, but two together can take a stand against him."
~

My Motherland, my mother,
Your heart is a boundless sea,
The kindest love you've offered,
Pouring endlessly on me.

In seasons fair and darkest night,
Your gentle hand has guided,
A constant, unwavering light,
In your warm embrace resided.

Yet shadows creep, the terror's touch,
A cruel and chilling reign,
Seeking to take far too much,
Bringing sorrow, bringing pain.

But sweet mother, strong and true,
Your kindness never wanes,
We stand as one, devoted to you,
Breaking these terror's chains.

This pest, this foe, we'll drive away,
With hearts united, righteously,
Together, till the final stand,
United, hand in loyal hand.

The burning brands . . .
plucked from the ashes of the fire
Are the castaways
The fragments of lives
The unworthy
The heedless . . .
are priceless to the great lover of empty souls

Its Simple …
There are no Heroes…..
Without Enemies.

All I ever wanted was to pour my soul,
Not to be judged,
Not to be silenced—
Only to find answers to the storms within.

I reached out, again and again,
Each time met with emptiness,
Each attempt shattering against walls unseen.

At last, I bowed my head to the truth:
It is not by will alone,
But by the hand of God that paths are carved.

You can fight, you can bleed,
You can cry out to the heavens—
But destiny will not be moved.

A strange, dense, heavy word.
Once, graceful and noble
or it seemed to be
until I used it too much.
I know that something fails,
that I’m losing its huge potential.

If I pronounce it aloud
it doesn’t shine anymore for me
in the tiny corners of my mind.
It lingered awkwardly, repeating
“I’m here!”.

The tangled threads
imposing new interpretations.
The materializing weight of sounds.
It's a bitter pill to swallow,
but I know the side effects.

The lightness of the feather
turns into a red brick.
When it hits me,
my inner calm ceases to exist.

I’m struggling to rationalize,
to be more tolerant.
And I just ask myself:
if I truly believe,
why do I say it?

The word so needed,
so loved,
in the silence,
in conviction,
in the presence of no absence.

Something authentic,
wasn’t it meant to be spoken?
So sinister…
it builds and destroys.

The word,

the idea

of




TRUST...