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I’d cut my soul, oh yes, my soul,
into a million glimmering shards of fire,
and fling them skyward with trembling hands
to form a constellation you might name Desire.
A compass made of wound and will,
to guide you home through storm and still.

Each fragment, bright with ache and grace,
would hum with hymns from long-lost place,
where memory meets the marrow’s song,
and even silence learns to belong.
I’d stitch the sky with every piece,
until your sadness found release.

And should you tremble in the dark,
loathe the lines upon your face,
or scorn the parts you’d dare not mark,
I’d kneel before that tender space.
With ink made from my bleeding trust,
I’d write sonnets into your stardust.

To the furrowed brow, the shame you hide,
the corners where your fears reside,
I’d sing. Not of perfection’s light,
but of your jagged, holy night.
Of crooked teeth and childhood scars,
of all that makes you who you are.

I’d stand, yes, still, in shadow’s keep,
beside the ghosts you try to sweep,
and whisper, “Love, I do not flee,
your night has always sheltered me.”
For dark is not the end of light,
but where stars dream themselves alight.

So let me burn, if burn I must,
my soul a lantern wrought from trust.
And know, though storms may steal your flame,
my light will spell your secret name.
And guide you, love, through fear and moan,
a constellation to lead you home.
Copyright 2025 Savva Emanon ©
The Poets Loft is my new YouTube Channel.
https://www.youtube.com/@PoetsLoft
Honoring the blessing that sword-fights the ice age in my thought-printing machine.
When that jazz song hits the false ending,
The moment fright rises and screams: "Defectively, all's landing."
Suddenly, the walls witness the rhythm's reviving;
The caged page bleeds its dead greys to green.

Losing is a hyponym of despair, by definition,
Until one can notice the "creative destruction."
Suffering with pinching feet in a cursed dance any day-
Though Marcus said, "What stands in the way becomes the way."

Rabid monsters, for your parts all were greedy.
Events are unfolding in the background,
As bite marks leave you rusty.
That's how all falls into place: the principle of "synchronicity".
Why do I think I'm better than everyone else?
But other days I can't seem to even look at myself.

I'm so cocky and ignorant,
yet lowly and sensitive.

It makes me realize how much I don't understand my own,
or why I try so hard for perfection.

Has my whole life has been nothing more than one silly made up competition?

I hate myself.
The imperfection.

And yet my flaws are what make me so different.
Don't I love it?

The quirks of being somebody insignificant?
I don't have to care.

Not for one minute until I feel your penetrating stare.
You've always been watching me.

And for some reason that makes me want to care.
Not that I need to be someone better,
but that, all you've ever asked of me is to be whom you first created.

And a wrenching so deep in my soul knows for how long I've let you down,
but a rejoicing in my heart tells me that was already left long ago underneath the mound.

Like a wave reaching its peak, I thank the lord for his mercy upon me.
I'm so lost and hurt, but when his loving wave washes over me, I feel nothing but utter glee.
For times when you feel weighed down by life, remember there will always be peace in the form of a man named Jesus.
abyss 3d
My sweet love,
the mirror of my soul,
the calling of my heart.

The day we meet is so sweet
in my tormented mind.
How can I feel so much love
for someone I haven't met?
But I know, in my tired heart,
that you're somewhere out there —
maybe, just maybe,
wondering if I exist.

My sweet love,
the thought of you,
of us,
makes my suffering, broken heart
quiet down for the night,
like a baby coddled by their mother.

My mind runs soft reels
of your breath mingling with mine
as we lay to rest,
your keys left near my books,
the way your voice might sound
when you're half-asleep and safe.
That kind of life —
the quiet, ordinary kind —
lulls my storm to sleep.

The mirror of my soul,
are you searching for me
in the faces of new people?

The calling of my heart:
can you sleep a little lighter,
knowing I'm waiting for your arms?

I hope this poem reaches you —
a whisper in your sleep,
so you’ll know I’m already yours.
Written for the one I haven’t met yet, but already miss.
May these words find you gently,
like a whisper in your sleep.
They say all wounds heal with time.
But how do you measure time
in a place with no light?

I could not remember
how long I had wandered astray
in that empire of endless midnight.

Colors had all bled out.
Black had swallowed blue.
Gray had ashed over red.

The sun—
if it had ever shone there—
had disappeared behind a veil of stone
and had become nothing more
than a distant memory.

Where days blurred into one long, unbroken night,
the sadness took,
and took,
and took again,
like an insatiable parasite
burrowed in my chest,
suckling the sap from my soul
the way strangleweed chokes the life from trees,
its roots worming within me,
feeding on the rot it had planted.

I felt its bony fingers tighten around me
and pull me forward.

So, I walked
with the dull resignation
of something too tired to resist,
hauled down a path
I had never chosen,
but could no longer turn from.

The road ahead felt cursed.

Each breath was heavier.
Each step was a leaden weight,
dragging me closer
to the unseen flames
that licked the edges
of that night
that had forgotten dawn.

Somewhere along the way,
I had stopped missing anything,
except maybe—
that stupid part of me
that had clutched at hope.

Yet still, I pressed on—
though that endless march felt absurd.

It led me to the bank of the river
that had been calling me forth all along.

The black tide was whispering my name.

A faceless boatman was standing there,
hidden beneath his hood,
his lantern spilling firelight
across restless ghosts.

He seemed to be waiting for me.

I did not ask his name,
and I did not bother to ask
what price must be paid
to cross to the other brink,
because there are things you already know
before the question leaves your lips,
and deep down,
I already knew
the cost.

I thought about it.
I really did.

But just as I was about to step forward to embark,
something,
some ridiculous,
whispering ember in me
begged me to stay.

So I turned my gaze
from the void where darkness swelled,
and I looked upward.

A fragile glint absurdly far ahead
beckoned me forward
so I left the boatman, his lantern
and the churning river behind me
and I strode
upon that fateful shore,
dragging this body I barely recognized.

And the rage inside me,
the one that tried to **** me—
it quieted.

Just a little.

Just enough
for me to feel the air
still filling my lungs—
even if it tasted of fire.

Yes—
sorrow still draped its veil of stone over the clouded mornings.

Yes—
the wounds still ached beneath the stitches.

Yes.
Yes.

All of it—
Yes.

And yet,
I finally started to feel the blood flow in my veins again.

So,
I started to climb.

And,
to this day,
though weary,
though worn and weak—
having tasted the night,
having stood at the edge where the flames licked the dark,
having turned from the river that whispered my name—
higher, I rise
to emerge from the chasm.

For far beyond the ashen clouds,
I know something awaits.

Something vast.
Something luminous.

And I know—
one day,
when I step beyond this darkness
and pierce the cindered heavens,
the planets will greet me,
they will lay their blazing rays upon my shoulders
like a tender vesture of celestial gold,
and crown the scars upon my skin
with their halos of fire.

For I know the endless skies hold light
for all who dare to seek.
Doing the same thing twice
and expecting a different result
Some call it courage
others, foolishness

Why do we believe we’ll emerge new
Same script, same actors, same bait
But a new will, a new mind—
suddenly making all the right calls?

Will we stare into what once blinded us
fight what numbed us—or
shake off what sticks,
(still) fall into the same holes?

Perhaps when nature softens-
A degree warmer (against blitzing wind)
A letter that arrives (right before desperation)
A word that didn’t drop (as the last straw)

You’ll find a way again
to give like how you’ve self-taught—
remembering that forehead kiss
as a trace of being loved.

Or perhaps the truest thing  
is how courage and foolishness
are two sides of the same leaf,
lit by a different light.
Written on a late afternoon overground train ride—lucky to be accompanied by vibrant clouds and the soon-setting sun, a breezy cabin, and few passengers, so I could truly breathe.
The butter melts onto the hot iron pan, sizzling and popping like a firework.
Each motion is a release, a kind of 'lacher prise,' as the French would say.
My heart warms with the love infused into every spice.
Just one carefully measured dash and the dish is just right.
In a kind of enchantment, I practice the art of cooking, laying my heart bare onto the heated metal.
I move swiftly and gently, letting the days worries settle.
I twirl and sway in the act of creation; little compares to the moment of elation.
My spirit hums softly, keeping me in good spirits and laughter as the light gradually dims in my kitchen and the day quietly slips away.
Here in my element, nothing seems to stand in my way.
Thoughts begin to pour forth effortlessly as each dish is polished and stored with care.
Here in the quiet and peaceful moment, I can hope, I can dare.
A touch of kitchen magic has gently enveloped my mind in bliss.
Embracing the elements to set my mind free, grounding me while releasing the tension, allowing me to simply--be.

-Rhia Clay
Rain is
The dance of intertwined souls,
Whispers of lovers beneath moonlight,
An eternal prayer of love and boundless giving.
Nature’s song in muted syllables,
A kiss of passion and beauty upon the earth.
The embryo of new life,
A promise of roses and tulips yet to bloom.
A liberation of the mind—from the chains of fear and stress.
A call to awakening,
A beginning with a rebirth of hope.
The essence of life—God’s sacred water.

Hussein Dekmak
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