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ryn Feb 28
The curtains will close,
only if we’ll allow it.

Not now…
Not at each darkened hour -
where the cycle of ticking hands
seem to wipe clean, the ash and dust
off the faces of every clock.


When the curtains finally do close…
And a little too late…

May the drapery be large enough
to grant eternal peace
and enshroud all the bodies that lay

but not our eyes…

Our hearts…

Our resolve…
ryn Jan 26
As he stand rooted -
mesmerised by the dance of lashes.
Alluring glances
from such beguiling eyes.

A flame then rekindled,
flickering weak…
Where once a chapter had died.

A foreign beating…
A rhythm he once knew and played.
Fuelled in trickles,
till a fire was stoked.


He still stands frozen,
entranced and enamoured,
by the irises that sang a tune
too familiar.

Resurrecting joy
while planting the seed of cancer
only time will nurture.
ryn Jan 14
They all tell the same story.
Each in their very own way.

How they share the same canvas,
yet revel the distance between.
At times twinkle in unison -
their secret code.
Wilfully scattered
across the universe.

The stars;
They’d still tell the same,
old story,
Even though,
the words would’ve changed.
They’d hum the same tune…
To what ears that still listen.

But stubborn I am,
as my heart
would whisper -
loudly into the quiet.
As if to slake the thirst
and quell the fires…
The remains of the love…
Of ages come.

ryn Jan 4
Promises of respite
from sallowed ashes,

adorned with feathers
from a thousand culled doves.

Haplessly wishing that freedom
comes soon.

A hope ensnared
in the clench
of crimson-stained gloves.
ryn Nov 2023
Embalmed skin -
seemingly made anew,
yet pocked with sores…
from a life past.

The then waylaid heart
needed only whisper…

And long was the walk
through the cursed labyrinth
of sharp worldly things.
ryn Oct 2023
we fly
with lofty feathers
albeit shorn wingtips

we speak
but with pregnant minds
albeit engorged nibs
ryn Sep 2023
What’s this glaze
over my eyes…

A heavy mist
with fingers…
that lingers.
A cataract that
dives and claws
into the black
of irises.

A film,
a veil,
a canvas botched
and vandalised
with arguing paints.
And indelible black
that sings of sadness,
highlights the aches
of dejection
and screams
ryn Sep 2023
As if world-gazing through filters,
we’d be enamoured by the beguiling nature
of its ways and the silent poetry it recites.

We’d be captivated by the subtle touches
of scentful breezes.

We’d zealously claim the emotions evoked;
and all its nuances, as our own refined beings.

We’d then forget…
For a fleeting moment -
the scars that mark our hearts…
and the tumour that eats at us.
ryn Aug 2023
          Lone dew,
          at the tip
          of a blade.
          by a cool night’s

               quickly with
               intentions unread.
               by the sun
               much too soon.
ryn Aug 2023
There’s no respite
from this spectre
from memories dead.

There’ll be more moons
before vigil relinquishes
its stead.
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