If I were not old
I would paint the house
and shore up the insulation.
I would go out and **** the garden
and cut down brush and vines
that have taken over the yard
and suffocated my flowers.
I would put in a metal fence
and plant roses around it.
But I am too old for that
and I may die here one day,
in a darkened room, caught
inside the crumbling plaster,
whose windows are covered by ivy,
which reaches its fingers across the walls.
It is almost as if the errant plants
strive to imitate the flowers
I used to bring inside and
place in bouquets to brighten
my world, no matter how small.
I shudder to think what will be,
now that the flowers are gone.

My heart would soar, seeing you nearby.
Butterflies would dance, and love would revive.
We'll sit on our old bench, under the open sky.

The moon would blush, veiled in pink hue,
The sun would smile, with a love anew.
Stars would twinkle, with a shy delight,
Pluto would appear, in the celestial light.

The impossible would become possible, it's true,
Heaven and hell would unite, with me and you.
Devils would don angel wings, with a gentle grin,
Witnessing our love, as we reunite within.

They say love stories are written with passion and fire,
Stored in libraries, where heart desire.
But our universe, our love, would be written above,
On the immense sky, for all to read, and endless love

When the car burst onto the empty highway,
the bridge stretched long over the river,
and the faint glow of streetlights
bathed the dashboard in a soft, cold light,
not bright, but a subtle wash
profoundly changing my thoughts.
Suddenly I wanted to feel clarity,
to dive deep into my center,
marriage and divorce throwaway words
for the deep sensation of home,
knowing I was once made to belong,
that I am both the home and the wanderer,
there, known, the place near-far
that I don’t know I need till I return.

What was it in the highway’s trance
that made me question so much about us?
The good and the bad, the love and the fights,
to stay or to walk away, I do not know
except, unknown to myself,
I carry the weight of my parents’ echoes—
Mom, frail in the hospital bed,
complications of diabetes wearing her down,
Dad, distant and angry,
his resentment a slow burn of injustice.

As my thoughts mirror theirs,
I think of my children—
a boy of six, a girl of eight,
their innocence and laughter,
their small hands and endless questions.
Fatherhood, an anxious dance
between fear and fleeting success,
my ambivalence heavy and lingering.

And my job, a professional manager
in a downsizing company,
uncertainty a constant companion,
the weight of decisions on my shoulders.
But even amidst the turmoil,
a flicker of hope remains,
the thought of returning home,
the possibility of a good future,
of being the father and husband
my children and wife deserve.

Very much Alive
Very much Here
Very much waiting for a Career

I'm trapped, it feels endless
Drowning in my own thoughts
Is the path I've chosen the right one?
Then why do I see no light ahead?
Have I taken a wrong turn?
Is the destiny I hold onto just an illusion?
Will the dreams I once spoke of with pride—
Fade into mere memories?
I've wandered this far,
God, guide me through my doubts.

Unyielding hearts beat 💞
Rugged souls in stubborn 🤕
Strength in every storm  ☄️