In the realm where whispers doth dance and time standeth still,  
Three voices rise, with purpose sharp and will.  
Perfume, Scent, and Fragrance, in a sacred throng,  
Declare their truths, each claiming right and song.

Perfume spake, with elegance refined,  

“I am the soul of artistry, confined  
To bottle's clasp, a crafted dream,  
A potion made to linger, to gleam.  
I bear the weight of ancient lore,  
A muse of kings, of lovers, and more.  
I am not mere essence, drifting free—  
I am the art of memory."

Scent, a fleeting shadow, whispered low,  

"Thou boastest of power, of permanence, I know,  
But I am life—breathe in, and then I fade,  
In wind, in rain, in every glade.  
Not bound to glass nor vials that bind,  
I slip through cracks, a breath unlined.  
I linger soft on fleeting air,  
A reminder of the earth, everywhere."

Fragrance, in silence, sought to intervene,  

“Is it not I who weave both worlds unseen?  
I am the union of the pure and the real,  
The fleeting touch, the lasting feel.  
I grace thy skin, I fill the room—  
A subtle dance, an endless bloom.  
Without me, perfume would not endure,  
Without me, scent would not be pure."

The argument raged, in circles vast,  
Each voice demanding, steadfast, fast.  
But in the end, a truth was found:  
Together, they’re woven, the essence profound.  
For Perfume and Scent, though both distinct,  
Find harmony in Fragrance—linked.  
Each alone, a part of a greater whole,  
Together, they speak to the heart and soul.

One dawn, as the earth was bathed in light, I stood in awe beneath the sky so bright, and with heart ablaze, I asked the Sun:
──────────────────
O' Sun, whose light makes the day begun,
What secret makes you blaze, a golden run?
Without your gaze, the world would be blind,
What stirs your flame, so pure, so kind?

You burn with fire, yet ask for no feast,
What makes you glow, O' radiant beast?
Your light endures, so steady and strong,
What is it that keeps you burning all along?
──────────────────

And the Sun, with wisdom deep and vast, spoke, as though time itself would breathe its last, with each word that echoed across the sky:
──────────────────
O' Jamil,
Your eyes are small to witness all I reveal,
Yet still, you seek what the soul can feel.
I burn not from hunger, nor earthly need,
But from love of the One, from whom all things proceed.

Know this, O' Seeker, the souls before you,
They too knew the light, the love, so true—
That love is the fire, the soul's true spark,
The eternal flame that lights the dark.

The wound, O' Jamil, is where the light enters,
Through love's embrace, the soul it centers.
I burn not for glory, nor for pride,
But from the One, with whom I reside.

The earth would perish without the Sun’s kiss,
A truth so profound, a cosmic bliss.
Within your heart, let love arise,
And in its glow, you’ll touch the skies.

The cup of light, O' Jamil, is never full,
It overflows from the One, boundless and beautiful.
Drink deeply, O' Seeker, from this divine cup,
For in its light, your soul will rise up.

The moment you seek is now in your grasp,
In love’s embrace, all truth will unclasp.
O' Jamil, let your heart’s fire burn,
In love's warm light, you shall return.

The souls before you have shown the way,
Let love be your light, each and every day.
For when your heart is alight with fire,
You too shall join the eternal choir.
──────────────────

I want to go home so much!
I want to go to my open essence.
There’s coffee on the table. It’s undrunk.
And there’s my future, which is pure taintless.

I want to go home, to my place.
The time is ripe: my heart and soul are holed.
To hell with being along! I go home!
I am invisible. And here I am cold.

Fusilli, born of southern light,

Curves like a dance,
spirals through the night.

Her taste, a delight,
her warmth so bright,

Yet he, unknowing, lost her in haste.

With rough hands, her essence slipped away,

A lesson learned too late, in disarray.
For hands unwise can turn gold to dust,

Now he watches, regret a quiet trust.

Some loves, like pasta, require time to rise,

A truth revealed beneath the southern skies.

They told me love was butterflies,
A spark, a flutter, a fleeting high.
I believed in hearts that race,
In passion’s sweet, relentless chase.
But time, the teacher, whispers low:
Love is more than feelings show.

Look at those who’ve walked the years,
Through laughter bright and silent tears.
Do they still feel the fevered thrill,
Or something deeper, stronger still?
There are days they fight, they ache,
When love seems almost a mistake.

Yet in the anger, in the rain,
In moments of the deepest pain,
Love remains, a quiet force,
A steady hand that charts the course.
Not just a feeling, wild and free,
But a choice, a will, a loyalty.

So love is more than what we feel,
It’s what we build, it’s what we heal.
Through storms and calm, through wrong and right,
It’s what we hold, through darkest night.
A bond, a vow, a sacred art—
To love when it’s hardest on the heart.

Can I tell you my dreams?
Will you stick around long enough to understand what each means?
Should I skip over the nightmare scenes
That flicker through like 8mm on pull down screens
While the essence meanders by like dust through projector beams
Two extremes
Two cerebral regimes
Strange themes
Nothing's as it seems
Importance only found beyond the streams of screams
No, I don't think I will mention my dreams

©2024

I swear...
I didn't mean to **** the best of me
Or squash what I like in me
Yet here I stand
****** weapon in hand
My essence
Dripping down the blade
Like rain from a cloud
Or tears of a clown
Landing on the razors edge
A familiar sight and sound

©2024