We were young, and the lights were out,
Spinning rooms and turning heads.
The last great generation—blooded hearts,
Passions born not of screen, but skin.
We longed, we loved, we lived—
Lifted to the highest plane,
With music and flesh as our true witness.
Those times were more than murmured whispers—
We were real, we were true,
Visceral tombs to the last great time for all.

Tom LeFort 2025

Down the hall
Back and to the right
Past a broken neon sign
Through an unlocked door
Then down four flights
A hole in the wall
In a room on the left
Follow it down
Through dirt and rock
After more than a while
You'll see a faint light
A oil lamp hanging
Kept by those who travel
So bring some won't you
The oil that is
Not much further past
You'll  find what you seek
The city beneath the city
The world and the way
That we abandoned long ago
The past they made us forget
And the future that might still be

It didn't matter,
for he could smell the sea
and thought it just enough
to season the past,
the remembrance,
slowly curling
in the flames at his feet.

I know another man’s junk is another man’s treasure,
for what is worthless to one may be priceless to me
Like the bracelets I gave you just to be rid of them,
not knowing you’d keep one—and return the other to me

Do you still wear yours? I wonder sometimes
Last time I saw you, it clung to your wrist
But I haven’t seen you in so long,
and time is a thief I cannot resist

Like bladeless sharpeners, empty and still,
they serve no purpose, yet I hold them tight
Once, they were escape, a solace in steel,
now, just relics of vanished nights

Like notes you passed, folded with care,
tucked away in a box I cannot discard
Like the jacket I wore whenever I saw you,
kept so I don’t forget—avoided so I don’t remember too hard

I hate remembering, yet forgetting is worse,
a cruelty I fear more than pain
For how could I let go of the things that remain,
when they made all my days what they were?

I think I knew it all along,
My hands were built for breaking, not for song
I tried to hold you soft and true,
But clumsy hearts don’t hold like steady glue

And I think I knew it from the start,
A storm can’t love the stillness of the chart
And so I loosed the knot I tied,
And watched you drift along the evening tide

You were the lighthouse far from reach,
A soul I touched but could not teach
A love I bore but never wore,
A knock I left outside your door

I kept my claws behind the veil,
Afraid they’d carve more grief than tale
You’ll never see the war I fought,
To stay away though near I sought

They’d call me cruel, they’d say I fled,
They’d ask what thoughts ran through my head
Do you recall my quiet hands?
And wonder why they missed demands?

Why they refused to dry your eyes?
Or failed to chase your fading skies?
Why they stood idle at the shore,
And never dared to pull you more?

The truth is this, I feared to bruise
To grip too hard, and still to lose
So I became the ghost you met,
A love you’ll mourn, but not regret

I wish I could project the past,
Play every scene and frame it fast,
A channel made of memory’s hue,
So all I love could see it too

They’d see the tremble in my hand,
The way my breath would barely stand,
The way a glance could make me break,
The way all of me was more than fake

Poetry mimics what hearts convey,
It paints with words that we can’t say
Though poetry holds pain and grace,
It cannot write a warm embrace

I’ve got stories to tell, whole worlds in my head,
But the ink runs dry when I’m close to the thread
Some things are sacred, too real to share,
Moments too fragile for open air

Been 18 for the last five years
Rain falls on the Blooming City like tears
Are the ones crying just me and the clouds?
Are these fake smiles just chasing crowds?

Have I grown in half a decade?
Have I known loss, or just paraded pain?
Graduated twice, but lost a dad—
Is it even right to still feel sad?

Can you lose someone who you barely knew?
Am I still wandering inside these prose?
The shadows still scream, the ceiling still listens—
What will it take to find what I’m missing?

To my 18-year-old me:
You’re doing okay—just keep trying.
To my 13-year-old me:
It’s okay to rest. That’s still surviving.

I hope I find what I’m meant to do,
Not vanish chasing ruthless truths.
Even if rain hides us in its shrouds,
Light still breaks through cracks in the clouds.
-**