Theres an eerie stillness to your sleeping breaths

Your gentle sighs, your dreamscape mumbles

Your subtle movements, your relaxed expression


Your measured heavy breaths


I lay unmoving, careful to not disturb

the softness of your resting eyes


In a state so peaceful so quiet

I need not awake you for my own comfort


The sound of your breaths,

their gentle presence,

calms my weary soul


I pass into slumber

listening to the eerie rhythm

of your gentle sleeping breath

I told her not to meddle with things
that you're not relevant anymore (when it's not yours anymore).

There she is, free and fully alive
and getting under my skin. I heard the same story from a different scenario, from a different girl— I guess it just revolves around, like a folklore, that casts an eerie shadow in the forest, that creeps in the cabins, that makes your skin crawl during a conversation in front of a fireplace.

Love was pure, until it gets you mad
she makes me furious, she's the whole carnival of a grotesque memory, an embodiment of regret and persiflage comparison, a harlot dances under the moonlight luring for a tryst, who wanted to build a so called 'home' when her body is on fire, burning in the pits of hell.
She's crawling, she comes back, and I know where to find her, even if she hides like a burglar, she makes a perfect storm and she knows what's to come.

I told her not to meddle with things that are mine, like her last remains left rotten in the cabins where the stories kept hidden, buried and every piece will remain unknown.

I saw you
How could I not
You capture the presence-
Of everything in the room
You did not see me.

You smiled at a waitress,
A stranger no less
I saw you mouth your order,
Something about a coffee.

I watched how you stirred your sugar,
Into the coffee you just ordered.
I knew you would, you always do
You still didn't notice,
I was two booths away.

You clean up in a way-
I've never seen anyone do,
Stacking the plates underneath the cup
Making it neat, but forgetting your umbrella
You'll come back for it soon, so I wait

I followed you home and learned your way
I already know how you like your meal
How you have your eggs
Or how you hum softly-
comforting yourself.

I appeared where you went
Our eyes haven't met yet
But I know you,
Yet you don't know I exist.

The interior in your house is neat
You clean nicely and well
You leave a light on,
On the porch so people know-
That you are home.

You leave the window cracked,
Ever so slightly,
It's enough for me but you do it
Like a clock stuck on repeat.

When you sleep it's so peaceful,
Your soft breathing like no harm will come
I'll try to protect you the best I can
But I can't get too close,
I like to watch from afar,
But close enough to know you.

You don't know me,
But I know you,
I'm not dangerous,
Just devoted to you,
And only you.

As I sit, breathing in the silence, soft light sneaks through the windows. Feels like peace, just for a second— Until that smile.

Not mine, but there, right in the mirror, lingering for too long, almost unnatural, curving in a way my lips never could done. My chest tightens—I laugh, nervously. It's nothing, I tell myself. Just my imagination, right?

But as I turn away, something pulls at the back of my mind, whispering—or maybe just a silence too loud, like waiting for a scream that never comes.

I glance back— And my reflection, staring hard. It blinks when I don't. Cold hands, shaky breath, I reach for the glass—it doesn't feel right, doesn't feel like glass.

"Is that me?" I whisper, leaning closer— And then, just like that, I wake up.

Was it a dream? Feels real, though. I sit again, breathing in the silence, light sneaking softly through my windows. Feels like peace.

-the walls are mumbling again.
the syllables are different
but the words are always the same.

wondering, pliant fools
the ceiling tries to sleep
but it's all no use.

find me a rhythm.
find me real soon.

salvage the pieces
of my home-brewed
gloom, in my ears
haunting the depths of the halls.
forever a ghost,
an echo, a murmur in a scrawl.-

-a dark brigade
carrying a funeral pyre.
held to the sky,
a message burning for miles.
weeping, is their war-cry
for grief they march,
to their battle of scorn.-

Water on the way
Passing hands
Watch the liquid sway

Spitting stories from the skies
Look down with your yellow eye
Brave

Grows steeled in its covet
Of the crown
Shoving night away

Keep pushing little lies
Emancipate them with your yellow eye
Saved

Salts in shades
Shake devotion from the stars
Thick tar turns to martyrs
As a moment turns to day

Stained glass peers
Bring tears to your yellow eye
Slave

Another slender figure
In the mirror
Cries to stay
Modeling composure
As it struggles for some closure
Disclosing on the altar
That it falters when it prays

Black mold in the corner
Blindfold to your yellow eye
Grave

As I drive along the country side
I see that everything when white
And then the days are short
It’s 2 pm….but the sun is setting
Soon it will be night and in that dismal
Sunset
I see a silhouette of farming  equipment
It remained me of my ancestral homeland
The vast and dismal wastes of siberia
And Central Asia!
For know I am in the land of the dead!

The rubble cries, mourning the loss of human touch. Weeping over the crushing silence that echoes through the once busied cobble-****** streets. These neglected edifices, with their iron-rusted bones, litter the long-vacant valley. The inhabitants of the forgotten valley stopped bearing children and began falling ill, heralding the arrival of their great collector.

On their own horizons, the people could see the visage of their guilt, cloaked in tattered rags that seemed to disintegrate against the most subtle breeze and sitting atop an emaciated mount with pallid skin. That rider, who strolled ever so slowly, dragging behind him wrapped in chains the ill-begotten promises of fools, the indiscretions of humanity came with ample warning. They ignored him; their self-loving monuments fell, and the crystalline waters of their gilded fountains flowed with arsenic. All too late did they recognize the shameful consequence of their hubris.

And so, when that cold Gray Rider arrived, gaunt and hollow-eyed, to collect his caravan of souls, the buildings howled like mothers sending the last of their children into the cold, unforgiving world. Thus, the sorrowed rubble weeps until it is reclaimed by the borrowed Earth, slowly returning to the soil from which it was born, allowing the verdant valley to take shape once again.