The inevitable death,
once, only momentarily, dies—
just for a pause,
like a blink in open eyes—
then passes this
whooping, precious,
deathless garland
over to her.

Just in one single sip,
you drank it in—
that painstakingly unique,
imperishable elixir of being.

The timeless time sprawls,
spotless and fine,
across the ages—
echoing through undying rhymes,
tuned into countless tunes
on this deathless-dead skeleton
that breathes, that hums:

"Alhamdulillahi Rabbil Aalameen."

The note before the sun sings,
in the Night of Creations—
within, and without.
Translation...
is never enough.

The nexus of time
burst across the ages.
The dew left the rose—
not to fall,
but to stir
the ocean’s deep heart.
Credible, nature!

The blue peahen of the sky
scurries down
into that innermost drop—
it flows in the soul,
in a thousand and one rhythms,
in the swell of song,
a perfect, complete drop.
As if sound itself remembered its beginning—
The melody-nymph,
in the orchestra of the sea,
lifts the flute to her lips.
Oh, that first music—
mind-blowingly perfect.

There — in that single drop —
floats the sea,
floats the full moon.
A blue lotus shadow
rests on the ocean’s deepest floor.

Clothed in blue upon blue,
sky-hued —
forever shading the air.
Her panache, midstream,
remains out of reach.

Who could ever touch
that forever peerless ******,
that numinous, untouchable water-nymph?

Into the vast,
sea-wide goblet
of Tahura’s wine,
all the thirsty warriors
drowned deep.
Even time took a deep breath of Ma,
knowing not what was coming.
Then you arrived — wondrous Shaaqi,
from the far side of the eternal shore.

And in a single sip,
Your Highness —
you poured death
full of immortal sweetness.

Start to finish,
all in all,
everything came
to soothe the eyes —
even the grave-dirt
was placed in your hands.
A single fistful of loosened soil…
You became life
to this death-struck soul,
yet never did you let it slip
into life’s final flow.

How can I ever forget you —
in life?
Or in death?

Approach, dear dreamer, if you dare,
But know my skies are thin for air.
My steps are stitched in woven flame,
My name, too sharp for lips of shame.

You came with hands of dust and thread,
A crown of noise upon your head.
No sword, no gift, no golden key,
Yet thought to tame a storm like me.

Did Daedalus forget to warn his son?
Even Icarus soared closer than you’ve done.
You chase the sun but dread the cold,
A heart too timid, a hand too old.

I dance where only giants tread,
I feast where lesser men have fled.
I wear the stars, I breathe the skies,
I kiss the sun where eagles rise.

So take this truth I lay in rhyme:
A throne too high is not a crime.
It is a gift for those who soar
Not for the ones who beg at doors.

I wasn’t crying.
I was hydrating my grief
from the inside out.

He said, “You’re not dramatic. Just detailed.”
I said, “You’re not cruel. Just consistent.”
We called that a compromise.
(or else a hostage negotiation.)

There’s glitter in my carpet
from a party I threw
to prove I wasn’t waiting on him.
I wore white.
Not bridal,
but still white enough
to make someone feel guilty.

I lit sparklers like sirens,
toasted survival.
Nobody clapped.

I collect apologies I don’t want,
write scripts for confrontations
that end in standing ovations,
then lose the footage
in a hardware crash
I secretly caused.

I take the stairs two at a time,
just to feel something chase me.
I text “I’m fine :)”
like it’s a safe word—
to keep the spiral
polite.

I rehearse the voicemail
he never left
like it’s Chekhov.
Like if I say it right,
the gun goes off
and I disappear
beautifully.

At the end of the dream,
he’s always wearing my hoodie—
saying something tender,
just slightly
too late.

And I wake up
with eyelashes on my wrists,
thinking—
Maybe I am the problem.
But God—
you should’ve seen the poems.

Sometimes she's here ,
sometimes she's there ,
sometimes she's high above
or radiant in mystic prayer .
☆
Singing to the trees
or dancing under stars ,
running through an everglade
when Venus conjunct Mars .
☆
She knows the path
of Truth and Light .
Her spirit guides
transcend the Night .
☆
The Empress heart soothes
wounded from neglect .
She is Skadi , Shakti ,
Artemis and Bastet .

God and I have a pretty simple relationship.
I ask nothing of her and she asks nothing of me.
Nothing!

There are no strings.  No conditions at all.
God doesn’t even require me to believe in her.
And I don’t, really.

Yet she is truly the God I love,
and, true to the old commandment,
I shall have no other gods before her.

She is the air I breathe.
In her I live and move and have my being.
To her and her alone I happily entrust my living and my dying.

She has held me tenderly and faithfully from the very start,
and sometimes, in moments of deep joy, deep distress or deep stillness,
I catch her fragrance and feel afresh her blissful, ineffable touch.

Selah.