Blank men carry black stones
to riverbeds and call all
who wake before the bells
to follow.

They do not worry about tomorrow
because tomorrow is never
and blank men are naught.

They do not ride horses
because horses mean work.
They do not fall in love
because love means deep being.
They do not chant prayers
because prayers make believe.

They only carry black stones
to riverbeds
because rivers are always changing.

“Don all ye that come, with lamp
and cloak and speak the nameless
name of the river you step into.
Bright be we that carry this darkness
and shadow be us that survive the light.
Ask not why you carry these stones,
but hurl them into the void
and see your reflection tremble.”

At this they move on
and repeat themselves,
with new faces
and no names,
to places that don’t exist
and people that never were.

Blank men carry black stones
to riverbeds and call all
who wake before the bells
to follow.

Once was dumped as worthless,  
With each tides; big and small,
That hit me strong enough;
  Made my edges soft from hard..

At last, it transformed me to a beautiful..
An embellished form of a glass piece,
  to a crystal clear pebbles;
     that shine with light,
       and radiate it’s shine;
          that is bright and clear,
            which is more than any gem.. 💎

All that brings;
   a visually mesmerised view;
      like a magical creation, ✨
         from a fairy tale.. 🪄
      which well renowned,
         with the name as glass beach..
       that attracted,
          thousands of visitors so far..
Still considered as a miracle..
     also named as magical beach..

Smoothed and polished;
   the broken me,
    to a beautiful,
      shining glass pebbles;
       that made me,
          to a remarkable story of
          “metamorphosis of nature” ✌🏼

mysteries
left unsolved—
scattered like ashes
across the floor,

like tracing smoke
to find the arsonist
who burned it down
to bury regret.

the evidence runs deep.
and the mirror
can’t lie
any longer.

he floors the pedal,
gives it his all—
but the past
clings like fire
in his rearview.

one last getaway.
just one more line
to cross—
because crossing them
is all he’s ever known.

he’s spent his whole life
living a lie.

I place my hand on your shoulders.
They snap together
like an old-fashioned clothespin
on my grandmother’s clothesline.

I intruded upon your space.  
I arrived at a place
that enveloped you
in personal cellophane.

You don't touch.
You won't be touched.  
What pleasures you miss, such as,
feeling the roughness of a wrinkled ear.

You fail to feel a touch
as a finger glides along your cheek,
moving with a tenderness
that surpasses any kiss.

Frigid fear confines you,
isolating you from the human touch
that caresses and warms the soul.

You navigate life
like an unrefined stone
resting among precious gems,
made luminous by countless rubs.

I sat on the rock,
With the statue of Robert Frost,
And thought.

I laid on the stone,
With the metal cutout of Emily Dickenson,
And cried.

Words may not break bones,
but they sure enough can break
souls

When the sun shines
On this rare stone
Three rays crossing
Each other
Come out on the stone
As we see the three
Rays
It’s a  sign of hope
Peace and faith
I don’t know what a black star
Sapphire is that
Of happiness for it
Wards off the Grimm moods