Dear ******* the groyne,
Forgive the forgeries upon my memory.
Forgive the feebleness of my firsthand.
Forgive the feeding of my frenzy.
Forgive the freneticism of my prose.
Take truth from the diction of my lens.

I trust you will grant me a fair hearing,
And offer me the clemency of purpose—
To once more capture or conquer
The presence of Iris herself in your greens.

Grant me a jury of judicious witness,
The pounding of the gavel as grace
For the crime of picturing the presence.
I bid the remainder of my fruitless fall.

Dear ******* the groyne,
Has your blacksmith forgotten you?
Left to entice waves at shutter speed,
Forged in flame,
Chiselled and tamed on Vulcan high.

Through his neglect has the time arrived
To render and share for all or none—
As Pandora, of beauty, of curiosity,
Doomed to open the box
For me and my eye.

Dear the man on the beach,
Do you have any sense of shame?
As if the still frame holds the truest face
The gods of our minds do not claim to fame,
But cower and quiver with a shout of shrill.

I beam bounty in the rays of the sun,
Watching the groyne creak and stutter
As the waves breach and mutter—
A voice of too great dread to utter.

I sense your presence, your song,
The siren’s call to prayer.
The screech of the zoom and focus,
Lulling and drawing a sailor of despair.

But it cannot be enough
To return the green to my grey.
It is but a mirror of Death,
For the true beauty lies beneath the skin.

As the waves crash,
And the wind howls,
And the flash—

Our moment in time, you and I—
A fleeting visit in a luminal light,
Between silence and soul,
Of a tune forgotten in the sands of us.

Yet for the sea, a distant whisper
Of a moment—
The opening of a story.

Was it a moment of theft?
A moment of true witness?
Good enough to frame?
Was I truly seen?
Or just a clutch for transcendence?

And still,
The tide remakes the shore.
The groyne groans.
The flash fades.

You carry the image.
I carry the knowing.

We both were framed.
We both were fire.

Don’t lose the grip of my hand dear, keep it secure amidst the warmth so blissful yet pure, for it was sculpted to be interlaced with yours.
And teach me the phrases which settle amongst your eyes, dilate with each touch of mine.
And let my soul flow with your restful breath, for it dances along the whistles of your beating heart.
And you whisper notes of melody in my ears,  it may unravel the softness within me, I fear.
The kisses lay flat on my skin, gently brushing away the flaws of my existence yet the tenderness rushes through my woven veins.
Don’t look too deep into my eyes, dear, they might settle for the vows quiet yet quite fierce.
My love, I fear, the smile might cause the pathways to shine, blinding me in assuring light.

Loving complete isolation —
The powerhouse of arts!
In every form — painting, music, or prose —
Huge, gigantic, radiant space
To explore thought & emotion.
No connection,
no commotion —
Only the magical effect of silence & isolation.
The silence: a hummingbird
canary singing you a forgotten song
From childhood’s garden.
Solitude births introspection
Breakthroughs, raw expression —
Brushstrokes of madness
Chords from the soul’s cavern
Lines inked in midnight’s confession —
Grip of pure reflection.
Pure Aesthetics~~~

Out of isolation
what feels true?
The war between your brain & soul ?

Conflicts of my heart, conflicts that form my sight, conflicts amongst me or the conflicts those upright eyes hide.
Conflicts like an endless tide, swallow them with instances of time.
And the conflicts as harsh as life,
As sudden as an unknown demise.
You see them behind the bars and find your joy, their presence is in the tore wings, in their inability to deploy their own life.
So the kids ask "what if they could speak?"
"Would their speech be as deep?"
"Death won't scare you but life would, you would find corpse despite the souls
Because you would stand within the conflicts as they protest for their right even if the world leaves them ignored,
Even if they could speak their voice would still be unexplored" I say.

connection begins,
where fear ends.

Ah lover,
as the sun hides it’s face behind a mountain,
the moon never rests in the day; keeping the sun company –
Your company is the warmth of covering my face in the valley
of your *****; the slow beats of your heart, rest my ear at night.

Ah lover,
upon your image is this brush against the canvas,
as the artist is swept by your smile, longing to paint out
The edges of its curve – where you inner joy is warm as the
nest filled with eggs, that are protected by their mother bird.

Ah lover,
I’ve been nestled by your comforting words to no end
you are the very creative moment of inspiration to come;
but what you do isn’t a play, but you could script a good scene –
As life is art; it’s an art to love, painted to remain, ah lover, my pen.

There's a chance,
I was AI generated,
Not born to a human,
Or made by a god,
A grand example of proper machinery,
Possibly another fault of humanity,
Because I wasn't programed with humility,
Maybe computer based artwork is so good,
Even I couldn't tell my mind is a mother board.

howcanibetogether    but    alone     at        the         same          time?