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The melodic chirping of crickets filled the air, while the hum of passing engines blended with nature, creating a meditative atmosphere of their own.
She lay there, observing as Mother Nature, the magnificent artist she is, crafted a tapestry of darkness, transitioning day into night.
She drifted in and out of sleep.
In that beautiful, dream-like state,
where one feels suspended between two worlds.
Caught in the liminal space.
The wind caressed her face, and she embraced its gentle touch.
The day had been lengthy, wearing her down.
Still, the night offered its serenity,
and she wrapped herself in it,
finding her solace in its song.

-Rhia Clay
Tuyet Anh Jun 25
He taught me how to wield
the weapon made of words—
a blade that kills,
now saving lives,
like it once saved mine.

My own work
pulled me back from the edge.
And in it,
he lives—
my teacher,
the man behind the lines.

Words—
once carved deep in the mind—
outlive the flesh,
outlast the hands
that once shaped them.

His words stopped me
from falling
to the hundred voices
that came to ****.
They caught my train
just in time
as I stood on tracks
with no will to run.

He never held me,
never came near.
But light can shine
without a hand,
and grace can guide
a demon back
from its final breath.

He never said : “Stay.”
He never said : “Don’t die.”
He simply lived
in such a way
that I believed—
perhaps, this world
can be heaven
for someone.

And that was enough
to make me see
the hell I’d made
and the rat I’d been,
crawling through tunnels
thinking no one
ever looked down
with love.
From The Desk Where Mr. C Sat
mjad Jun 17
His soft skin on my fingertips
eyes flickering in his dreams
arms twitching around me
how did I get so lucky
to see this man asleep
Steve Souza Jun 16
The morning melts
like sugar
into first light's
pour.

Your touch
lingers
like
honey,
And your breath
plays me
like your favorite
song.

Behind your eyes
silence,
caught in glass.

No need for words,
no need to see—
just this
slow
breathing
symphony.
As you entered the room
stirring air with suppleness of walk
waking up the stillness with jingles of cymbals
making curtains dance to the sound of bangles
aroma wafted into air from canvas and copybooks
my paintbrush grew restless
and pen became enraptured
my eyes, hands and other parts
became electrified.

My heart spread rainbow in the room
like colours of youth and
lilts of life's melodies.

You who are sitting before me
have the power to
change my consciousness
into painting, poem, melody
or anything else!

I know you'll speak no truth at this time.
I've to be guided
solely by your silence, your eyes and
the inaudible appeals of your heart.

I've to settle before I lose the presence of mind-
whether I should use brush or pen
or my eyes, hands or something else
and create a unique
composition
all in you.

-०-
Note - This poem was originally written in Nepali language. This translation has been rendered by Abhi Subedi,
Zywa Jun 7
To be touched
I have to
be seen and heard

speak sweet words
with a smile
Ever sweeter words

But you
give me perfume, a fishnet dress
and black-red lingerie

You like to explore
me as new
with pinches and kisses

the hard in the weak
curious about my cuddliness
and the little sounds I will sigh

You have so little patience
and pay me little
attention
Collection "More"
She entered
like dusk slips through curtains—
slow, deliberate,
never asking
to be noticed.

The lamp flickered.
He watched
as her earrings swung
like pendulums
measuring silence.

She undressed
without touching a seam.
The room tilted
as if memory
had gravity.

His fingers hovered
over the curve of her hip
like a prayer
he no longer believed in.

They moved
like fire learning
its shape
in a spoon of oil—
quiet first,
then chaos.

Somewhere,
a rain began
they could not hear
but tasted
in the salt between breaths.

Then—
stillness.

Not peace,
but aftermath.
She lay back,
a wound wrapped in moonlight.

He stared
at the crack
in the ceiling—
noticing it
for the first time.

The room smelled of iron
and orange peel,
as if something holy
had burned
and vanished.

She left
before the hour turned.
Her body stayed
for days
in the folds of the sheet—
a crease,
a heat,
a warning.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
She didn’t speak—her skin carried the storm.
Ken Pepiton May 20
an exceptionalist insisted on praying for my recent heresies -
-- answer or devote a moment of silence... my mortal flaw
--- ask not if you wish you never need account for knowing

Done lightly, is it ever done right, or must
devotees be cognizant to the right use
of dedicated hearts and minds,
by kings and courts many holier than most of us.

We can easily agree, no heavy hueristical premises,
what a participent in a war party accepts as duty
to God and Country, locally, those convinced,
converts given reason to die, where none was.

Duty in a warring society is to that social order's under lay.
Say, who first told the local version of labor class duty
to rear children fit for battle at the nation's call…
or, at the authorized voice of truth's spirit's call…

Give us more John Waynes and Ronald Reagans
-but we settle for Donald Trump and cheer,
signs are clear, God is still on our side
of the Gulf of Mexico…

devote(v.)
1580s, "appropriate by or as if by vow,"
from Latin devotus, past participle
of devovere
"dedicate by a vow, sacrifice oneself, promise solemnly,"
from de "down, away"
+ vovere "to vow"  ---{bend, bow, raise the right hand}
--- remain so devoted, in most faithful silence ---
----- banking on inside sacred signals ---

From c. 1600 as
"apply zealously or exclusively."
{For fear sake, we may imagine}

Auto d'fe, show of devotion- aithunk,

From 1640s as
"to doom, consign to some harm or evil,"
and the word commonly
had a negative sense in 18c.:
The second and third meanings
in Johnson's Dictionary (1755) are
"to addict, to give up to ill" and
"to curse, to execrate; to doom to destruction."

Related: Devoted; devoting.
To devote indicates the inward act, state, or feeling;
to dedicate is
to set apart
by a promise, and indicates primarily an external act;
to consecrate is
to make sacred, and refers
to an  act affecting the use or relations
of the thing consecrated .... [Century Dictionary]

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=devote>

It need never stop. Participation in the answers, devoted
to thinking words redeemed
at the most first recognized cognation,
- we say that this way, a vow is spiritual by nature true.
- we agree we think so, sorta,
- we swear on air, as Donald Trump did left arm dangling…

What a Hoo-mon does is speak make believe done.

We can lie to whomever believes and, doing so, prosper
eh,
furrowed brow, go soft then,
smooth, feel face smooth, cognosis fresh,
fed and walked
until relieved, smile, feel the belly join, breathe, feel heart
full wills worths worked up
into  feeling slick
in some frictionless first intent

Participle past tense, first fret faith musters, why lie about
the very basic first premis being no doubt whatsoever, a lie?

Thus devoting the gadflies this particular damnation.
Testing reader response, while acting as first reader... as a habit... self aware certain as Socrates, I may not know the least bit of all the whys involved.
Viktoriia May 20
you know you're touch starved
when you start having dreams
of hugging someone
and of being hugged.

i have one at least once a week.
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