She walks unlit between the crowd,
A hush beneath the voices loud.
The hours bruise her open hands,
Bartering breath for small demands.

No desk, no page, no teacher's name—
Just lessons scraped from soot and flame.
Her dreams, like threadbare hems, unwind—
Too delicate for those half-blind.

They do not see the shape she bears—
A rootless bloom that learns to care
For scraps of sky, for drifting sound,
For silence in a world unbound.

The mirror offers her no script,
No birthright carved, no title gripped.
Yet in her chest, a slow-burned spark—
A vow that glows beneath the dark.

Outside, the banyan dares to stay,
Its limbs a home for those astray.
She sees herself in trunk and leaf—
A quiet spine, a growing grief.

What voice is hers, if none reply?
What name survives when none ask why?
Still she persists, unknown, unseen—
A bloom that breaks through concrete green.

Bric-a-brac high on a shelf, it might fall
On a floor with no carpet, might break and be gone.
It may slither, get lost, or be taken away;
Nevertheless, it just can't walk away.
It may gather dust, be moved, kept in hands, or removed
Somewhere else when the owner does not want to look.
Bric-a-brac is sometimes boring; it stands there so still,
Does not change by the hour its colors or kin.
It stays in one place with ease and a smile,
Happy to be someone's honor and pride.
It exists with no thoughts or dreams to become—
It is what it is, no less and no more.
After sunset, it is all the owner could want,
But by sunrise, sometimes they are gone all day long.
Bric-a-brac is still there; it's excited to be,
Unaware that the world might be cruel to it.
One day they could get used to it and throw it away,
Or resell for a penny, yet it's priceless, per se.
As for now, they admire its thinnest white skin:
It looks shiny afar, but too dull from within.
Bric-a-brac's just a vessel; it's hollow inside.
It contains what is gifted, spills back multiplied.
There are rainbows and lights if it's given some love,
Yet it is moved by an inch only once in a while.
It took ages to get in possession and own;
More time, too, has passed to trust in return.
Expected to be now a quiet trinket on a wall
Instead of a purpose: to be someone's all.

When night’s soft shadow wraps the world in peace,
And starlight’s silk unfolds across the skies,
A spark of love within my soul shall cease
The chill of dusk with whispers warm and wise.

Let years fly by, let fleeting days depart —
Time holds no power over hearts that care.
Your eyes, which calm the storms within my heart,
Still hold a love that time cannot impair.

With you — the world grows quieter, still,
No need for words when eyes can understand.
Our breaths align — and none can feel or will
The heart’s soft plea: “Don’t let go of my hand.”

This trembling born from you alone, so true,
Now flows through every beating vein I keep.
It guides us both as moonlight guides the dew,
As if an angel walks beside our sleep.

Forget the pain that darkened love’s pure flame,
Let only feeling in our hearts remain.
Your gaze becomes the answer and the name
Of love that gently carries us through rain.

" J’espère en toi pour nous" Gabriel Marcel

When we share hope our bond is real
     And when our voices chant a blended song,
Our ties are strong as tempered steel.

In anxious times with fears surreal,
     We seek out friends among the throng.
Without shared hope no bond is real.

But when our wills compel us feel
     Spirit-bound to search, however long
For ties as strong as tempered steel,

Without a sign, the fates reveal
     A newfound friend who's come along
To share our hope; our bond is real!

With zest our common course we seal
     Hope-called by duty’s Siren song
Our ties are strong as tempered steel,

With light and reason to fire our zeal,
     We rise to challenge fortune’s wrong.
When we share hope our bond is real;
     Our ties are strong as tempered steel.

I wake, to the rhythm, of you
breaking slowly, behind my ribcage.
The orchestral swell;
the auric light, of rosy dawn...
blooming, to new life.

More, than a phantom.
More, than a phantasm.

I yearn, to be wound, around you,
in long, lingering threads,
of bruisy, purple-gold daylight,
and pull tight, as I knit myself,
around your stretched form...
soft-skinned, and sleepy...
pulling you so tight to me,
that your body barely rocks
upon the edge, of the tapestry needle.

Let my legs, be the woven fabric,
that ensnares your hips,
and pulls you, even closer, to me.
I want to feel, your rippling laughter
burble, through your chest.
I want to swim, in languorous strokes,
the fathoms, of your aching mind,
with the ease, of turning your thoughts:
flipping through its dog-eared pages,
like the well-read chapters,
of a readily studied, book.

My arms, seek to hold you,
and cradle you, to me,
lips, pressed to your skin,
plush, and satin pillow soft.

I want to devour you, in rapacious,
repeated kisses...I want to feel
the spring-coiled tension,
above your shoulders, snap, and unwind
relaxing, in helpless surrender,
at my nymphic touch,
as the rest, of you...hardens, like resin
and then melts away,
between my own spread,
buttery thighs.

I want to be so filled,
with the full, of you,
that you spill over, and escape...
I want to clutch your face,
in the tenderness of my fingertips,
and lose myself, in the labyrinth
of your lovely, dreaming eyes.

I need you, like flowers,
need gentle rains, to bloom.
I desire, you...like the prime, of night,
awaiting the the rising moon.

and I wait, for you...
like the guitar string solo,
in a beloved tune.

THE SAD ONES
You are used to loneliness
Grief is your only friend.
You walk in silence, with voices in your mind.
But with me, there is gospel:

Carry on, carry on.
Stare at the sky ,I'm there.
You are not alone. Stare at the sky.

This is hope.
If you're scared, go to church,
And find triumph in those silent battles.
Salvage what remains.
You've been lost for a while...

Here is your salvation.
You will be fine.