Furies surge and heave with passion
Where swells music of love’s lost lore,
As deep a longing in ocean’s roar,
Only to break, and retreat into silence.
No matter the force, an unreachable moor,
A lonely cadence played upon the shore.

Fates, like gales that pull our sails
Through calm or strife, pale or grand,
Leave us longing for the strand.
Bitter pangs of waking woes
Storm loud as immortal command,
All these lines drawn upon the sand.

Furies, lashed out from the sea,
Lie broken down on ocean’s floor,
Softened, smoothed, by ocean’s score.
For if, unscathed, we return from depths,
By what star shall we guide the oar,
That we might sail free, evermore?

Fates give not a brief repose, but
Sails unfurl, and worlds expand,
That we might explore the hinterland.
With no lines upon the sea, our fates are free –
Love removes its scouring brand,
As tide moves high upon the land.

Zeus and Hades Dispute the Soul of Man

Upon Olympus’ storm-crowned throne,
Zeus spoke in thunder, wrathful tone:
“Let me shape them, bold and bright,
With minds like flame and hearts of light.
They’ll build with stone, they’ll climb the skies,
Their dreams as vast as eagles rise.”

From shadowed halls and molten floor,
Rose Hades, Lord of Death and War:
“You give them fire, but I give fate.
Each heartbeat ticks toward my gate.
You build them high, but I make whole.
What good is man without his soul?”

“They are not yours!” the thunder cried,
“They breathe beneath the open sky!
Let them rejoice in song and feast,
Let love and war be theirs at least!”

Hades laughed, in low despair:
“And yet, they whisper me in prayer.
You give them hope, I give them truth
The mirror time holds up to youth.
Their gods may lie, their hearts may roam,
But every man comes crawling home.”

“They shall defy you!” Zeus proclaimed,
“With temples, towers, songs unnamed!
They’ll name me Father, King of Kings,
Their lives uplifted on my wings!”

“But when the wine runs dry,” said he,
“They’ll find their way from gods to me.
Let them rise but not forget
Their roots are born in ash and debt.
For what you raise, I shall receive
The last to hold them as they leave.”

And so the world was born of strife
Between the spark and end of life.
One gave will, the other doom,
And Man walked bravely toward his tomb.

With dreams from Zeus and dusk from shades,
A creature of both light… and grave.

If I shot at a number line,
The chance of hitting it exactly would be 0,
Because a line made only of points has no width,
And points themselves have no size.

So it is impossible to pick a specific point.

So if I had, or did, shoot my shot,
I’d have no chance,
Because she is only his,
And he is hers.

So it is impossible to shoot my shot at her.

Everyone claps when the show is over.
The curtains draw to a close,
And the lively night returns to shadow.
But little do they know—
While the spectacle is done,
A crisis for the puppet without its puppeteer has just begun.

How do I smile?
How do I frown?
Without a hand to guide me,
How can I show myself to any degree—
How can I scowl?
How can I sneer?
If there are no strings to pull me near,
There’s no way to move while being sincere.

How do I tell them how I feel?
How do I show what I’m going through?
If the music stops, the stage is still,
I am trapped with no one to turn to.

So I will sit here, silent, and wait
For the next spectacle to begin.
Ready to be used—
To accept my fate—
For the outward approval of the audience again.
Because only when I’m controlled
Does my existence feel whole.

If the sun slid into the sea,                                                             ­                       
                                                                ­                                                        
 If the moon lost its gravity,                                                         ­                     
                                                                ­                                                        
 If the trees never grew new leaves,                                                          ­      
                                                                ­                                                  
there would still be you & me                                                               ­       
                                                         ­                                                                 ­
If I never walked again,                                                           ­                 
                                                                ­                                                          
If nothing was how it should 've been,                                                            ­      
                                                          ­                                                             
 If I never had any friends.                                                         ­               
                                                 ­                                                                 ­
  there would still be you & me                                                               ­ 
                                                                ­                                                     
    If no roses ever
bloomed,                                                         ­                     
                                                                ­                                                    
  If I lived in just one room,                                                            ­                  
                                                                ­                                                      
If the radio played one tune,                                                            ­            
                                                    ­                                                            
  there would still be you & me                                                               ­     
                                                           ­                                                         
  If everything fell out of place                                                            ­      
                                                                ­                                                    
  or a smile never crossed my
face,                                                            ­      
                                                                ­                                                    
  If astronauts never went to space,                                                           ­       
                                                         ­                                                       
there would still be you & me                                                               ­           
                                                     ­                                                                
 If all the stars fell down                                                             ­                           
                                     ­                                                                 ­            
and streams went
underground,                                                     ­                     
                                                                ­                                                      
If all that was lost was found,                                                           ­ 
                                                               ­                                                 
there would still be you & me

In the third of the night that sent by fate
a fate never meant for me.
As you burn, I freeze,
shrouded in the blizzard of silence,
witnessing your lightning-quick decision.

Makes me stand in the heart of winter,
with void dwelling deep in my senses and breath,
I turn myself into a monument of lament and sorrow,
powerless, violated by the shadow of your touch.

Perhaps I seem calm and unshakable,
but my blood boils, giving birth to a disaster
a tornado of crimson rising in my chest,
spinning without direction, wild and untamed.

If only I had not severed these hands,
for whenever I crave to reach for you,
it would turn me into ruins of darkness,
covered in dust, with shadows nesting in the hollows of my ribcage.

Yet behind it all, a flicker still lingers.
Even if I keep severing my hands,
your warmth, your beauty will always be
the cascade of light I yearn for.
And if I rust away, this monument will stand,
a testament to your grace.

No sundial’s gnomon could cut this air before—  
the dial long-slept, moonlight glows, lines our palms,
its grip of frost, its calculus we tore,
until our spines aligned, unguarded—warm.

The gnomon’s scorn now bends to our skin’s dawn—
its frost-etched law undone by breath’s slow rise.
Our shadows fuse as Brahms unwinds the calm,
rewriting fate in tongues that flesh denies.  

The gnomon’s edge, once steeped in solar lies,
now bends to taste the salt along our throats,
its calculus of light a husk, takes flight—
a butterfly that drinks what dawns promote.

Let ruins chant the creed of numbered skies—
our pulse, a clock that dares to harmonize.