The moon is lathered in a milky sheet
A duvet of languid longing
And although my mind is not discrete
It cuts atmosphere dawning
With ambience only found in those who loved
and those who have perished from it
To persevere past the pyres of sanguine allure
is to cultivate the spirit of future past
A time corrupted through vices, internal unknown
Like an ashtray of device, it lays to you unbeknownst
A tool of destruction, Shiva's scythe
A bouquet of olive branches, a path to Christ
Follow it blindly through the forest of harpies
And emerge a new soul, doused in shards of grief
But cut from the glass your mind refracts
Your body remains
But your soul is complete.

“when I see the moon rise in the deep sky, all  
large and looming,   that is hope

and as the sun is red-setting, throwing its last rays
of God-love over the hills,   that is hope

when a ranger sees the homeless man parked in
his illegal overnight spot, and decides not to
disturb his sleep,   that is hope

when you hear a dream from a friend of a wall of
steel wrapping your home whilst fire tornadoes
around it, and wake to find yours one of two
homes still standing,   that is hope

when a son who has received absolutely every
reason to leave, Will Not Abandon his abusive
elderly mother,   that is hope

when the city dims down enough to see the darkness,
lit by a Universe of stars——”

In the quietest corners of my mind,
Where shadows stretch and whispers bind,
I built a fortress of fear and doubt,
Each brick a burden, each scream a shout.

I wandered halls where my demons played,
In mirrors cracked, my soul betrayed.
I saw a face I couldn’t know,
Eyes dimmed by battles fought below.

My heart, a cage; my mind, a storm,
My spirit lost to its weathered form.
I wore my guilt like a crown of thorns,
And cursed the mornings my breath adorned.

To myself, I was the cruelest warden,
Carving wounds that begged no pardon.
And to others—oh, how I failed,
A shipwrecked soul whose love had sailed.

But in the depth of my despair,
A voice arose, soft as prayer:
“You are not your scars, your pain,
Not the weight of loss, nor the shame you feign.

You are the seed beneath the frost,
The light not gone, only lost.
Forgive the battles you couldn’t win,
The wars you waged with foes within.”

And so, I stood in the shattered glass,
Letting the echoes of anger pass.
I named each sorrow, gave them breath,
And mourned them all—a thousand deaths.

I forgave the child who hid in fear,
The youth who drowned in a sea of tears.
I forgave the hands that pushed away
The ones who tried but couldn’t stay.

And I forgave the world for breaking me,
For being cruel, for not letting me be.
I forgave the faces I could not please,
And the love I lost in my disease.

Then, I faced myself—my fiercest foe,
And whispered truths I longed to know:
“You’re worthy still, through every mistake,
A soul rebuilt is a soul awake.”

Now, the chaos sings a softer tune,
A hymn beneath a healing moon.
And though I stumble, though I fall,
I’ve learned to rise, to heed the call.

Forgiveness freed the chains I bore,
And in that freedom, I am more.
A fractured self, made whole again,
A heart that beats where silence has been.

So here I stand, beneath the sky,
No longer afraid to question why.
I am the storm, the calm, the sea,
I am forgiven—and I am free.

Let’s sow the memories in the field.
In the warm darkness, the past is not judged, and peace will come by avoiding the dazzling light.
Scattered pain will bloom into flowers.

All the unloved wounds will become daffodils.

I will come to love those flowers.
                                                       Hana.M

The moon rises, and with it, the weight of my sins.
I see the faithful rush to the masjid, heads high, hearts light—
while I stood here in the shadows, drowning in regret.
How many prayers have I missed?
How many whispers of mercy have I ignored?
How many times has my Lord called me back,
only for me to turn away?

Yet, Ramadan arrives like an old friend,
knocking at the door of my troubled heart.
I hesitate. Do I deserve this mercy?
Will Allah even listen to someone like me?
Hunger comes, thirst ensues,
and with every thorn pricked against my skin
I realized—this is not punishment.
This is love.

I sujud for the first time in months, maybe years.
My forehead presses against the earth,
and suddenly, I remember how it feels to be home.
Tears spill, fervid and unrelenting.
Ya Allah, I am broken.
Ya Allah, I am ashamed.
But Ya Allah, I am here.

The nights stretch my past, and so do my regrets.
I stand in the depths of Qiyam,
my voice trembling as I beg—
Don’t shun me away.
Don’t let me leave this month the same, again.

Then comes Laylatul Qadr,
the night that could erase everything,
the night that could rewrite my destiny.
My hands shake as I lift them.
What do I ask for first?
Forgiveness?
Guidance?
A heart that remembers Allah the way it should?

And then, like a gust of wind, Ramadan is gone.
The Eid moon shines, but my soul aches.
Not for the food, not for the thirst,
but for the nearness of Allah I fear I will lose.

I was a sinner.
I am still a sinner.
But in this month, I learned—
Allah’s mercy is greater than my sins.
And maybe, just maybe,
I'm not lost after all
I am reborn
I am found


Erennwrites

In life, perhaps, I fear no more a thing,
But pangs of conscience frighten my weary soul.
In night’s deep hush, I pray, my voice takes wing –
My heart aches sharp, and tears begin to roll.

Some are no more. Their souls to heavens fled.
No chance to meet, embrace, or greet again.
What is life? A fleeting flash...
The wave runs fast, by breakwaters split and spread.
No words remain to answer for the pain.

Forgive me now, for I was blind with pride,
Why did I fling sharp words into your face?
Forgive me, those I wounded in my rage,
Back then, life’s feast seemed like eternal grace,
And I felt not the sting of conscience’s bite.

O wisdom, soothe this sorrow in my breast!
In Lethe’s stream, no soul may enter twice –
To you, departed, much I owe, confessed.
The voice of conscience screamed in night’s still air...

Lethe – the river of oblivion in Greek mythology.

holding little sewing pins
to flag and label
the delicate nerves
of reminiscence
and the friable folds
of understanding
we always stand here
put on spot
to answer, to name
what is laid before us
all its pieces and parts
and we always struggle
searching other eyes
to find a sense of comfort
that no one here
feels entirely sure
of how to go about it

I would you’d make me salt,
cast my name to the tide,
let the wind bear my ruin
to lands unremembered.

Twice, I split the sky,
unbarred doors best left veiled,
breathed storms where thy light
once lay unshaken.

Yet thou stand’st—
unmoved, unbroken,
a sky unyielding,
a river that takes all,
yet rages not.

Wouldst thou burn,
I should be smoke.
Wouldst thou drown me,
I should be rain.

But thou lov’st still,
and therein lies my undoing.