Just one fleeting glance at you, yet the timeless Earth,
With the deep red roses, holds its breath in awe of your worth.
Daylight and twilight weave together, lost in your spell,
How could I ever describe your beauty? No words could tell.

Shape my heart as you will, so it mirrors your light,
A reflection of your endless grace, so pure, so bright.
See yourself, just once, through your own lovely eyes,
Just how stunningly beautiful you are—beyond the skies.

The clock exhales a trembling breath,
its pulse a shiver in the spine of time.
I wait,
unmoored in the ebb of minutes,
where silence holds the marrow of the night
and shadows braid themselves with longing.

The moon hangs, not as a goddess,
but as a seamstress,
stitching the veil of night with frayed intentions.
Each star—a pinprick in the fabric,
leaking a light too distant to warm.

I have heard the hymn of the ivy,
creeping on stone,
its whisper a litany of slow conquests,
its green, a defiance of winter’s gray.
And I wonder—
who will sing for me when my roots no longer hold?

Beneath my skin, rivers stall.
What was once a tempest
is now the measured drip
of something no longer daring to spill.
There is a violence in stillness,
in the way silence sharpens itself against my thoughts.

But let me tell you—
in the shadow of this unraveling,
I have made my peace
with the slow decay of mirrors,
with the fracturing of names.
The sparrow need not call itself a sparrow
to fly.

And when the end comes—
(oh, it is coming)
it will not be the roar of oceans folding into themselves,
nor the shattering of celestial harps.
It will be the sound
of a match extinguished in water,
the faint hiss
of something small,
forgotten,
forever.

Loyalty, honesty, respect—
That’s all I ask, and all I give.
I’d never seek to change your soul,
For it’s your spirit that makes me whole.
Through laughter, tears, and all we’ve known,
You’ve never had to walk alone.
I stand with you, in light or dark,
Our bond unshaken, a constant spark.
No need for words, no need for show,
True friendship’s strength is all I know.

If ever my heart stops beating
Bring her, she's lovely,
My clock would once again start ticking
Like they're back in the 80s.

Even if the photograph of her fades
She's still my beautiful grace;
Pardon me, Lady Highness
I should brought you a bouquet of roses.

Once the time of us stops,
It's not the end, but only a minute pause;
It only meant the end of this host,
My head will continue rest unto your lap.

In an era next to this
I will still be your lover, I promise.

I feel it coming closer,
I feel it almost near.
On my cheek,
Now another tear.

Rolling down,
Just like me.
But it gets so blurry,
That i can't even see.

Time is ticking,
Heart beats are skipping.
Is it just me,
Or am i slowly tripping?

Haunted by time,
Endless and timeless.
For people to say it's only temporary,
But nevertheless.

I'm stuck,
In something called free.
They don't feel,
But i swear i can see.

It coming closer,
Almost grabbing me.
But i'm afraid,
Time is the only thing,
That can guarantee.

-anoeska

Shaky Spear is my name
and rhyming is my game
though I don't need to rhyme
to be sublime
I prefer the lines
that stand on their own
just words alone
in a desert of colorless bone
and dying poets

She is
entranced
in the little,
endless hums
of the night,
they are
soft spoken
mysteries,
gentle
whispers
in the
wind by the
poet’s pen
in stroke of
the fabric of
pages with
visions
written by
sonorous
hums of the
deep sea
arms of
the cosmos
in a flower
undying,
opening
in the eyes
of the one
who have
known
the dark
to cherish
the light,
unfading
in bloom,
she rises
from the
long,
waking
daydream,
drifted by
the seas of
the moon
to the
shore,
where
she rests,
gazing
upon
the tides
until the
sun is in
advent,
the earth
awakens,
deeper
than
stars, the
unsullied
sleep and
breathe,
they too, are
timeless.

A governess, a guardian of the young, so known and dear as to be called “Mother” and a noblewoman, just barely 12 by age, named Portia, sit talking as the sun sets the stage for a cool, cloudless night.

“Mother, who invented candlelight and the slow, delicate brush of lips?”
“Some rakish boy, pawning his experience for present pleasure, no doubt.”
“Say true, Mother. If you were a man, would you find this common body worthy of love?”
“You show no blemish child, and display a certain bony voluptuousness - I should think.”
The governess begins to comb and braid Portia’s hair for sleep.
“I saw Portincio this morning, in the courtyard.”
“The boy from Padua?”
“He’s a man Mother, and his cast portents a passion so sweet - it shakes my very frame.”
Mother chuckles, “Even hopeless birds sing in cages.”
“I am not hopeless!” Portia writhes angrily, like a snake about to strike but mother calms her.
“Shoo, shoo, now,” Mother purrs, brushing all the more gently, “I meant nothing of it.” After a moment, she continues, “Love is more than coquetry, little one, and it soon passes - like a parade, or a rash. For now, be happy, you are like the chaste stars - unreachable.”