Ignore the fibers,
scorched to ash—
the fractured sky bleeds silent light,
where names dissolve like lost prayers,
and time is a body unbroken, yet hollow.

But under the ruins,
the same pulse reverberates—
a seed splits open,
drenched in the same rain,
thirsting for a soil never touched.

We are the void’s breath,
woven in the skin of stars,
lost in the endless touch
of the same hands
that never let go.

Fingertip reaches—rose glass-fractured sky,
but the world keeps turning, indifferent, blind.
We watch, we wait, we sift through the fallen ashes—
searching for warmth in a fire long gone.

Ghosts of wanting drift through the ebb,
feet sinking in time’s marrow-thick river.
Clawing at the hilltop, slipping, gasping—
but do we climb or just fall slower?

Love hums then shatters,
echoes down corridors we dare not tread.
The oaken river swallows its dead,
birds fall southward, wings brittle with regret.

Winter comes for all—darkness too.
Light flickers, just out of reach,
a mirage for the desperate, the reckless,
those who still run, still chase, still bleed.

But what if the answers unravel the mind?
What if understanding breaks us instead?
What if we lose ourselves,
seeking someone else to make us whole?

Is life’s significance just a joke told in passing,
laughter drowned in the howl of the void?
If misery loves company,
why do so many stand alone?

I trusted your name,
So You never killed me,
Never I did either.
What do you have to say ?

Yes,
I killed you.
And I made you suffer.

I was 15,
you were same,
I watched your eyes...
And mine in rain,

I am sorry if
You were in pain  ,
my brother ..
you felt that never,

Your eyes were numb,
Nothing that now ,
That makes me better.

I killed you,
my brother...

I was looking at you,
But you were not,

I am not sure if
I missed you a lot.

There was no blood ,
No body.

If you were in fear..
Waiting there,

All in the woods
Staring stairs,

Had I come down then .....
You would not starve then,
Would you have still waited , then?

What do I do now?

Where have you gone .

You killed me ,my brother,
As you made me suffer ,
From the pain you dealt me
I will never be better.

Sitting on the beach,
a gray day,
her in my lap.

An anonymous beach,
in Tuscany.

My mind speaks,
it won’t stop.

My mind
wants to write.

There are poets
who never fell in love.

There are people in prison
who committed no crimes.

White gloves
hiding atrocities.

Strong people
with broken hearts.

There is love
within heartbreak.

Religious men
who don’t believe in God.

Judges of life
with their own transgressions.

Thinkers who do not think,
and lovers who do not love.

There are free minds
trapped behind walls.

There are vagabonds
more cultured
than your professor.

There are salty rivers,
and love that never meets.

There are those with millions
in the bank,
yet empty hearts.

Today,
I am grateful
to have found you.

How many instances have I passed through, completely unaware that the simple act of choice, any choice, or even no choice at all, will set a precedent for chaotic movement forward into a future that I could not even have guessed at. How unpreparedly have I been given this power, the ultimate freedom to control and shape my own destiny. More than that though, the absolute freedom to at any and every moment change course and alter my own future forever. Wouldn't it have been easier to move trustingly into a life where fate has stretched out a rail that we ride on to a destination planned and known.



These are the existential thoughts that wake me at times. My mind worries at feelings that seem to be very much ignored or unnoticed by everyone around me. Today it is Possibility. In fact the proposition of infinite possibility.



This compelling facet of human consciousness winds all of my life up into a tangle of both hope and also anxiety, both absolute freedom and yet crushing responsibility.



I just like everyone else I was born new and empty, unchartered and alone in my emerging awareness and howling my confusion at a complex and indifferent universe. The crux of it is, if dwelt on there is no conclusion but to become aware that all of humanity is first censured then condemned to the breath catching realization that we are free to decide our own path and with every choice whether conscious of it or not shape all future existence. The sheer number of paths to choose can halt us to freeze at the cliff’s edge paralyzed by indecision.



The infinite nature of all possibility implies that there is no singular way to set a course, no correct way to live. I feel dizzy at this and have a headache.



So is there any meaning at all to be found. Clearly humans have always searched for this as both individuals and as a collective solace this has has been constructed carefully by means of cultural behaviours and ancient beliefs. Meaning and order and purpose is formed for us and around us. Perhaps meaning is not a thing that is given but must be actively searched for or constructed. Can I craft any meaning in a world that seems devoid of any inherent purpose.



I have the capacity to review past time to reflect upon my past. Perhaps choices made and courses altered. Memories and experiences undoubtedly shape our perception of all possibilities before us. Perhaps that means for us a choice we may have made remains unexplored. Because we have clear sight of what is past but only a limited grasp of our future, it’s like a confusing mess of shadow and light, half understood implications and inference, We are doomed to be pulled into the unknown.



As I move to the kitchen do begin my day these thoughts and more, much more beset me, trouble me and wear me down. Maybe coffee will help or not, I just don’t know anymore.

Yellow bleeds into empty space,
Fingers trace what’s forgotten—
Light bends, but doesn’t reach,
No warmth, no trace.

The wind erases what it touches,
Thoughts drift, lost in air.
Inside, a silence stretches,
Where words once lived.

A river fades,
But whispers crash—
Water turns to dust,
Silent in my chest.

A name, a face—
They slip like smoke,
Dissolving into nothing
I cannot grasp.

Nights unspool, threadbare and unspoken,
folding inward like paper never meant to be read.
Air thickens in the absence of weight,
a vacant gravity pressing against nothing.

I have stood inside mirrors that did not hold my shape,
watched glass ripple as if swallowing an afterthought.
Footsteps dissolve before touching the ground,
syllables decay before finding a mouth.
Sound moves, but not toward me.
Light bends, but does not stay.

They have names for the things I am not.
Soft words, dulled edges,
a kindness wrapped in misunderstanding.
But I have walked long enough to know
the difference between being unseen
and being erased.

Laughter hums in frequencies my bones do not carry,
a hymn for voices unfractured,
for hands that do not slip through their own grasp.
I have traced its outline, memorized its resonance,
a song played beyond a locked door.

Happiness is a language spoken in another room,
a warmth that does not cross thresholds,
a breath I have never drawn.
It moves past me like mist"
seen, felt, gone.

I have worn every shape, every silence,
have bent myself into something easier to hold.
But some voids do not hunger for filling,
some absences are not waiting to be undone.

If I reached for help, the air would take my hand.
If I vanished, the dust would not stir.
If I was meant to be more than a flicker,
the world must have long since turned the page.