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The river of time flows fast, untold—
Too wild to bend, too narrow to row.
Strange how the past cuts deep in soul,
Yet melts like frost in morning’s glow.

Who sees the shapes beneath the ice?
The lives not lived, the roads not trod?
Are we but echoes, paying the price
For paths we chose—or those we dodged?

Or are we less: just cracks in stone,
A hollow where the dark has grown?
No hell will break—just blood and bone,
Silence, thick as ice below the snow.
This poem is a meditation on memory, regret, and the elusive nature of identity over time. It explores how the past lingers beneath the surface—both haunting and vanishing—like shapes beneath ice. Through stark winter imagery and restrained lyricism, the speaker questions whether we are shaped by the choices we made, the ones we fled, or by something colder and more impersonal: silence, entropy, and time itself.
my girlfriend would wear baggy jeans – being my solitude, as a
faithful lover. it’s just the darkness she has in her genes. sometimes
I cut her fingernails, to stop her from biting them – she starts to bite
me instead. my sad stories are all reflected in her tears; she tried to
cut my hair, and cut right deep into my thoughts – I’m always
thinking out loud.

she sits on my lap, just to have a window seat; her hair is like a
forest, that the comb loses it’s teeth. still my fingers run through
the woods; dark as a night, where my eyes become her moon.

and she’s the wettest dream – a real sensual thing; being like a
water Queen. she knows I can't water down my words, or kiss her
less without our spit. “kiss me before we go” – even if we’re just
going to the corner store.

but that’s just the thing; I’m in the market for finding hope in
my dreams – for this person only exists in my dreams. sigh!
Zywa Jan 20
She says nothing, there's

just a kind of sigh, a groan --


that makes me happy.
Novel "a word child" (1975, Iris Murdoch), chapter Thursday [5]

Collection "Unspoken"
Odd Odyssey Poet Nov 2024
As I rest on the rigid air – a leaf drifts down, soothing in
its descent; by a gush, the wind that blows through hair.
Tears cascade like rain, shattering and scattering as they
touch the ground— parting the throng of young and old,
all yearning for the fill of love to seep deep into their pores.

I am merely a frigid leaf; the tear of my once grief
the bruise of all dreams pursued with bare feet.

The gentle kiss of light seeks to rekindle the spark in your
eyes— I've heard the haunting echoes of blindness, of a
relentless quest for self, yet finding nothing of substance.

I am just a sigh, empty and bare.
Nahin Nov 2024
I see cloak of winter
wrapped in foggs of our sighs,
in between hopes,
in between lies,
out of warmth,
out of cries.

Fortune tells winter-
Tomorrow if  I
wishfully might die,
winter is cold, winter is blind.
The pain of poor when winter passes by.
Nahin Nov 2024
He expects her everyday
longer than hope.
Sitting on benches,
leaving coffee cold.
A stranger sits beside me everyday.
Nahin Nov 2024
When you're done with chores,
Taking the dishes to the sink,
gently rubbing each until one's
left that you mindlessly rub-
Is it true that I'm gone?

Albums of long lost memories
kept aside your closet beneath
neatly folded clothes- when touched,
you avoid them intentionally-
Is it true that I'm gone?

When pages of book flap in wind-
passing by you beside window,
your vacant gaze upon a line-
that stirred thoughts behind time,
Is it true that I'm gone?

Why is it that your coffee
left on table often gets cold?
Distracted- you sense an hour
passes by like your secret brief sigh.
Is it true that I'm gone?

Late at night, when lights go off-
birds go numb, in screaming silence,
is it that you still make a wish
for me in your dreams?
Is it true that I'm gone?
Once a man had died in war. But he left a letter for his wife. A letter of confrontations. A letter of unuttered love.
Silence Screamz Oct 2024
Lying down,
wrapped in a simple ribbon
of cloth,
I sigh

This connfusion is a displacement
of my time here.
Thus I become
disenchanted
and unclean.

Not willing to open my eyes
and accept the causes
around me.
The burdens of rapture
surround me.

It is not clear.

Are they ample beginnings
or disasterous ends?
With a small dose of
peppered reality setting in.
I sigh

What holds the ribbon together
is just a simple knot.
A ball of deception
which allows no movement.
Tangled but organized.

A single thread of wool wrapped tight,
so tight it ruptures our core.
Coarsing it count on dismal displays
of solitude and empty hands

It is not our fears that scare us,
it is being bound up
with no casual effect
that makes us surrender
to ourselves.

I stay wrapped in a ribbon.
Eyes covered dark,
Soft and secure.
I take a deep breath.
Then I sigh one last time.
QueenOfTheAshes Aug 2024
Sat with my ghost in silence
Tried to figure out the science
Of who she was
Of what she has
She looks like me
But could it truly be?

Did I die or have I been caught in a lie?
I swear I heard my soul sigh.
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