A figure lurks in the shadows,
its gaze fixed on me,
expectant
hungry
lifeless.

As I walk on the narrow path
of life – unaware at first,
I feel its presence
slowing my steps with unseen weight
like stones filling my pockets underwater.
The sun dims when its near,
colours leaching from the world.
I want to run,
but the path narrows,
thins to a tightrope beneath me.

The figure waits
forever patient,
sometimes distant as mountains,
sometimes close as my own shadow.

It grabs the coattails
of my existence,
clawing its way closer
with each heartbeat,
each exhale,
each moment of forgetting.
Until I can feel
its breath
on my neck.

It whispers in the voice I know too well,
murmurs dressed as memory,
lullabies of failure,
groans of what might have been.

I do not turn,
But I know it waits.

A figure lurks in the shadows,
Still, I walk on.
I have places to go
Before it takes me.

On God, shall we envision old flowers.
Landscape, they stand on greenscape.
Definality? We shall define them gold.

Crumble a star! Shall a new be born?
I'm none but a witness for them.
The new generation shall build anew.
Yule horror? No! Shall they wither!

For it is who deemed true,
shall abide for amendments.
For it is who deemed boredom,
shall a man spread flowers.

Whom for man?
It is human, a human...
A human, from the mankind,
waiting on the cliff for someone.

For me, a pen
and smudged ink on the table.
For them, the sky and clouds.
For them shall decipher
For them, a skybreak.

Fire, for him and for us.
A small sacrifice for our enjoyment.
A small temporary heat
to warm the hearts and its owner.

Sunrise shall arrive by the end line of the sea.
For us a small savor against its motherly silk.
Flower a fragrant, and its fragile beauty against almighty.
Asoothed by him, shall no devil bloom against our wither.

Landscapes shall ruin against greenscapes!
Change! The frame of stone caligraphs for a green curvy paint.
Wither shall not bloom against you.

"Ah, an arriving creature," shall us wave a misty silk of greenscapes.
Shall us, greet a warm candle in winters.
Shall us be not a wither to others.
Let us be a witness for the wandering cavern voices.

For us a new start...
For whom should we serve?
Ah, a pen..
Write aside a candle?
What a moment I miss...

I see what I do,

I walk toward it too,

I fly where I stitch the new.

In this eternal dream,
I wake.

Wake up.

Sounds become feels,

The chapter spins and reels,

I watch the scenery shift and peel,

Taking the weight of what it deals.

Wake up.

I begin to see,

A cage that begs to break free,

A silent plea caught endlessly
A dance with death,
a fleeing decree.

Wake up.

Is this real?

Nothing begins to feel.

The past bleeds into the future’s seal,

Bound to a fate I can’t repeal.

Wake up.

A S̵͖̉͝o̵̡̞͓̖͊̀́ư̶̛̺̻͛̽͂̋̈n̸̝̜̖̥̓̎̆̏ḓ̶̰̥̝͕̗̟̓͑́̾̃̈̋̿̏̑ͅ?

A bed of comfort found.

A pulse that hums beneath the ground.

Or is it not so round?

Ŷ̷͍͙͚̝̈́̆͂͐̚͝͝ö̷̩̳͙̯́̿͜ͅu̵̼̘̞̳̣̓͌͐̏̔̇’̶̢̹͛͑̀̍̈́̓̐͑̈͠r̴̈́̈́͆͌­̯̲̱͚̬͇̠̤̯̖̄́̊͗͋͝ė̶̟͎̭̱̓͆̋̈̾͐̈́̕ ̶̫͔̤̟̫̯̥͉́̾ǹ̷͍̉̅̓̓̆̃o̸̢͙͐̾t̴̥͆ ̷̘̖̰̯͖̘̙̂r̵̨̛̘͚̲̈̈ͅe̶͇̙̭̙̽͋͒͜ǎ̴͍̙͚̹͗͛̽̌͝l̶̤͖̇͋̽̆.̶͈̣̩̱̦̉̀̅̐̿̈́̉̚͠­̯̣͕̫

I heard the other day that you went to touch the blue horizons, riding the lonely waves.
I heard the other day you were walking along the endless shores, stretched across for miles upon miles.
Leaving only your solitary footsteps behind ...

I have never seen these shores, never glided on the blues.
Never caught a glimpse of the vastness that embraces eternity with such grace.
Never for a second in the life of a singular eternity have I thought that maybe, just maybe, serene feelings lie in simplicity.
So, next time, when you go to the and walk along the endless shores to meet the horizon,
Will you take me along? ...

It's just that I've been thinking recently.
How, from the beginning, we are rigged to self-destruct.
How much we yearn for oblivion with every atom in our flesh and blood.
Yet, we never think for a moment about these footprints we leave behind.
And our parting sighs ..

If you look at me now.
Sleepless nights, bloodshot eyes, weary soul, and still trying to reconnect.
But you were always beyond my reach, always up so high.
Endless foolish attempts of mine to reach you among the stars.
But everytime I have overlooked one simple fact.
That you have always belonged to the sky ...

Live on, and keep dreaming on.
These self-centric lifestyles, mine and yours, ours and theirs, closer and torn apart.
If this is the definition of love,
Why am I fighting for peace? ...

But I heard that you still dream, still write stories, poems, and songs about all of us.
Chant music of the olden days from the depths of your soul.
The saga of human existence still makes you think that love still blossoms.
In the far corners of this world, like a still blooming rose.
So, the next time, when you write another song about the love that still blossoms,
Will you write some lines about me? ...

You should write something beautiful, something only a foolish romantic would say.
"Hold my hand close in the middle of a crowded street, and maybe I will reconnect."
So that I can answer you with this,
"Make me believe in closure again, and maybe I will again look at your face." ...

If it's not too much trouble, can we just talk all night?
Just you and I?
Until the stars cross our paths,
And sing us a lullaby? ...

I heard that you still wait for the end of the eons at the edge of eternity.
Still watch the starry skies on melancholy evenings with the eyes where the horizon finally came to rest.
I have never seen this edge before, nor have I seen such evenings.
So, the next time when you go there,
Will you invite me? ...

Maybe we will watch the starry explosions in the sky.
The end of everything on a melancholy evening,

With your hand in mine? ...

I left my phone in the fridge again.
Texted my dead friend by mistake.
The dream said turn left at the red door
but every door was mauve and melting.
I wore the wrong shoes
to the right breakdown.

God, I’m tired of being
the lesson in someone else’s flashback.
Of saying 'I’m fine'
like it’s a good thing.

Sometimes I bite a fingernail off
and flick it to the ground,
just to prove I was here,
just to pretend my DNA
is not a walking lie.

Sometimes I talk
to the dogs with TikTok accounts
like they’re holding something back.

Sometimes I rehearse my disappearances
in liminal spaces:
parking garages,
abandoned malls,
group chats I left on read.
Now I RSVP to nothing
and they still say
“you’ll be missed.”

I keep meaning to heal,
but the plot keeps thickening—
And my name—
God, my name—
it echoes like a spoiler
in a house that isn’t mine anymore.
A trivia fact
no one got right.

My memories keep getting
auto-corrected to get over it.
I don’t.
I alphabetize the wreckage.
I romanticize the ruin.
The rot is getting readable.

Anyway,
I’m late again.
Time got weird in the hallway.
I swear the mirror
was trying to warn me—
but I was too busy
checking if my under-eye bags
made me look exquisitely exhausted,
or just ordinary and old.

I wanted to scream  
but the hallway  
was practicing silence.  

I wanted to run,  
but the rug said stay  
and the mirror said  
be still  
and beautiful and
unavailable.

The mirror said:
this is what longing looks like
when it runs out of places to go.

So I stood there—
a half-wreck, half-reflection—
trying to decide
if disappearing quietly
still counts as survival.

Somewhere,
my phone is defrosting.
Somewhere,
the red door is waiting.

Somewhere,
my dead friend
is laughing
his ghost-laugh,
mouthing: same.

A pattern emerges,
Beyond the seems.
It cries,
It screams.

Some are friends.
Some are foes.
Some revenges.
Some sew woes.

It screams to be recognized;
It screams to be.
It is the pattern,
On an apple tree.

Abyss as eyes,
Once it sees.
If one stares,
It will be.

What is the meaning of meaning you ask
As if understanding could even unmask
The word described by the word is just cagey
And the search for it, well, that’s pretty new agey

Perhaps it’s the happiness, before we focus on dread
Our beauty that’s fleeting before we are dead
It hums in the silence, it leaps through the air,
It thrives in knowing — and not knowing — it’s there.

Yesterday whispered, “You’re nothing at all,”
Today stretches forward, a tentative call.
Tomorrow might gift me a torchlight, a spark,
Or leave me still wandering blind in the dark.

It’s both the climb and the ache in our knees.
It’s both the summers warmth and the winter’s freeze
It shouts in our triumph, but it hides when we lose,
An whisper of a mumble that will only confuse.

The search for the question, or the answer’s pursuit,
An enigma of itself that will never compute
A cosmic conundrum, a riddle, a game—
the meaning of meaning is one and the same.