"In fog or flood, it has to look like news
and not wear down too soon."

And so, your words arrive, unshaken,
standing against time like typeface pressed into permanence.
They do not beg for attention,
yet we find ourselves held captive—
reading, rereading, lost in the weight of their silence.

"First God
Then Everest
To the ends of elation."

There is an ascent in your lines,
a climb where breath turns thin
and meaning thickens into something celestial.
You write of heights that pull and eyes that burn,
where light is both burden and gift,
and even hesitation becomes poetry.

"Maternal midnight
Metallic lakeside
Freon heart, fayence mind."

You forge night from iron,
a heart that hums in artificial cold,
a mind glazed like ceramic, fragile yet infinite.
Even your landscapes breathe—
lakes reflecting the surreal,
hills like white elephants waiting for meaning.

"Mosquitos on her mouth
Drink the blood of encryption
Change the tone of her voice."

What is hidden, you unveil.
What is encrypted, you translate into ghosts and echoes.
In your poetry, voices are rewritten,
veins are maps,
words are particles dissolving into eternity.

You, Carlo, are the architect of thresholds—
where dusk is not an ending but an exile,
where each poem is a place, a paradox, a pilgrimage.
Your lines do not just linger—
they transform.

She writes in whispers, in echoes that stay,
Carving lost names in the wind’s soft sway.
Her ink is sorrow, her verses bleed,
A requiem sung for the hearts that need.

"When someone who loves us fades away,"
She mourns the words we failed to say.
Regret clings tight in the hush of night,
Where silence weeps in the absence of light.

Yet love, in her hands, is vast and free,
A grand heist stolen from sky and sea.
"The sunset’s glow, so bold, so bright,"
She claims the stars, the waves, the light.
For love is not caged—it is wild, untamed,
A river that flows, never to be named.

She speaks of love beyond mere touch,
Of time-defying, endless trust.
"Love reshapes, rebuilds, redefines,"
She whispers of love that never confines.
A fire that burns yet does not consume,
A madness that dances beneath the moon.

And when she writes of power’s weight,
Of hands that build and hands that break,
She lays before us the choice of fate—
"Will you rule & hold position of power?
OR will you love, and set love free?"

Oh, poet of grief, of love, of fire,
Your words take flight, they never tire.
They carve their names on hearts unseen,
A melody woven in gold between.

If ever ink could outlive time,
It would be yours—sublime, divine.

"With the utmost compassion, the dark one reaps in waves..."
Yet she stands unshaken, a poet of storms,
weaving change into the wind,
etching echoes into time.
Through turbulent vessels of pride, she carves mirrors,
reflecting truths we dare not name.

"Please don’t arouse my anger..."
For love, she would move mountains,
for her children, she would break the sky.
Soft as a whisper, fierce as fire,
a mother’s wrath, untempered steel.
She writes in pulse and prophecy,
a warrior who shelters, a poet who shields.

"Grandma sold mother..."
Some legacies are bound in chains,
some are broken, thread by thread,
and from their ruins, she builds anew—
not with shame, not with sorrow,
but with shards made beautiful.
The weight of the past does not define her,
it is the stone she stands upon.

"I'm watching from the moon..."
She sees beyond the finite, beyond the stars,
whispering love across the silence.
Aneesah Lionheart, voice of time,
your words do not fade—they crystallize,
shining, burning, living on.

And if poetry is power,
then yours is an unshaken kingdom.