#aloud
wielding the unseen
wrapped tight
in a forever moment
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 6:14 AM UTC
PartI: The Temple of Unseen Eyes
(An Epic of Blind Faith and the Abyss Beneath Hope)
Beneath the ash of fallen suns, where silent choirs pray,
A city built on promises was born of pale decay.
Its towers reached through rancid clouds—
white bones of gods defiled—
Each stone was set by hands that swore
the Heavens reconciled.
They carved the air with chants of gold,
with hymns that none could read,
They crowned their doubts in velvet lies,
and called their madness creed.
For hope was their cathedral’s spine,
and faith its rotting core,
They’d kneel to drink illusion’s wine,
then beg for evermore.
The priests were blind from birth by rite,
their sockets packed with sand,
To “see through faith” they said, “is sight”—
and praised the trembling hand.
They promised paradise in dust,
they sold their souls for fear,
They kissed the flame that seared their trust,
and whispered, “He is near.”
And when the sick cried out for help,
they smiled through teeth of rust,
And told them, “Pain refines the soul—
in agony, you must.”
Their altars dripped with unseen blood,
their psalms were screams disguised,
And still they prayed for mercy’s flood—
as hope itself capsized.
Then came the Hour of Hollow Light—
their faith’s grotesque reward,
The sky split open, black and white,
and silence drew its sword.
Their candles bled instead of burned,
their holy texts took flight,
And every truth they thought they’d learned
collapsed into the night.
Still—none would flee.
Still—none would see.
They bowed before the void’s decree.
For hope, once pure, had turned to chain—
a shackle forged of sweetened pain.
They sang their trust into the air,
they screamed their love to stone,
They built a god that wasn’t there,
and called their echo throne.
The heavens gave no sign, no sound,
no hand, no voice, no breath—
And still they knelt on haunted ground
and worshipped only death.
Their children’s eyes went white as glass,
their laughter turned to dust,
Their future hung—a shadow mass—
devoured by their trust.
The faith that promised endless dawn
bore midnight’s true design,
And hope, that sweet delusion’s spawn,
uncoiled—serpentine.
And when at last their city fell,
there were no screams, no flame,
No vengeance from the pit of Hell,
no angel’s wing, no name.
Just silence—vast, eternal, pure—
a stillness dense as stone.
For what they’d prayed for to endure
had never once been known.
The last blind priest, with trembling jaw,
rose to the crumbling spire,
And whispered, “Faith is all I saw—”
then vanished in the mire.
Now ruins sleep beneath the dust,
and nameless winds intone,
Of those who trusted hope and trust,
and reaped what can’t be shown.
No bones remain, no hymns, no cries,
no relics of belief—
Only a pulse beneath the skies—
too slow to grant relief.
Some say at night it still resounds,
a breath behind the moan,
As if the void itself was proud
of what had made it known.
Yet listen close—
and you may hear—
A whisper soft, yet sharp with fear:
“Faith was never blind…
It was watching.”
PartII: The Prayer That Ate Itself
(A Descent into the Black Mouth of Blind Faith and Hope)
There was a church before the dawn—
no doors, no walls, no floor,
Its hymns were carved in nameless bone,
its saints were war and war.
No stars above to mark the sky,
no sun to crown the day,
Yet still they prayed—
my god, they prayed—
to something far away.
They built their faith on hollow sound,
on echoes feeding echoes,
A spiral of belief unwound,
and bound in burning meadows.
Each vow was smoke, each truth a scar,
each dream a glass-eyed dove,
They called the void “Our Father’s heart,”
and bled themselves for love.
Hope was their sweetest poison,
distilled from fear and thirst,
A mirror held to nothingness,
that whispered, “You were first.”
And faith—oh faith—
it crawled like light
beneath the skin of lies,
It promised warmth, but left them cold,
and blind behind their eyes.
They preached of heaven’s quiet calm,
but silence took their tongues,
They praised the balm of unseen hands—
till rot filled up their lungs.
They marched in lines, the faithful dead,
their eyelids stitched with thread,
Their prayers were all the words they said—
the words that left them dead.
And when one dared to ask what for,
the others hissed and cried,
“For doubt’s the gate that opens Hell,
and Hell is where you’d hide!”
So all returned to worship’s trance,
their hearts like locks unturned,
Their hope the fire that fed itself,
and left them never burned.
A prophet rose—a hollow man,
his breath a ghost of sin,
He said, “The god you seek is near—
he dwells beneath your skin.”
They tore him down and drank his blood,
and called it sacred rain,
They bathed in what they thought was grace,
but it was only pain.
Then something deep began to hum,
a low, consuming drone,
As if the faith they’d built so high
had found a voice—its own.
And one by one, they bowed in awe,
their bodies still as glass,
Their shadows turned, their eyes went wide,
and time refused to pass.
No storm, no flame, no righteous sound—
just knowing filled the air.
An unseen shape, too vast, too wrong,
began to form from prayer.
It wasn’t wrath, nor mercy’s hand,
nor love’s forgiving call—
It was the faith itself that lived,
and ate them, one and all.
No scream escaped, no flesh was torn,
no mark was left to tell,
But something smiled within the dark,
and wore their hope so well.
For faith had fed upon belief,
and hope had turned to seed,
And every root that sprouted forth
was watered with their need.
And now, when silence cracks the night,
and shadows hum too near,
You’ll hear a whisper not your own—
a name you’ve never feared.
And should you kneel, and should you weep,
and whisper, “Are You there?”
You’ll feel it smile behind your breath—
and move beneath your prayer.
The light you seek was never gone.
The dark you fear was never wrong.
It listens still. It always did.
Faith was the mouth—
and hope, the lid.
PartIII: When the Word Began to Pray
(A Poem That Eats Its Own Voice)
At first there was a mouth—
mine—
speaking of faith like fire,
and it sounded holy, didn’t it?
Each word a rung to climb
toward meaning,
toward light—
toward something.
The faithful came,
built pillars of sound around my tongue,
and believed the echo.
I believed it too.
We sang.
We built belief out of breath.
We worshipped the air between us.
Then the words began to tremble.
The rhythm slipped.
The echo lagged.
I said God—
but only heard od… od… od…
The vowels wilted,
consonants split open,
bleeding static.
Faith grew heavier.
Hope, hungrier.
And the prayer—
oh, the prayer—
began to pray back.
Walls of verse closed in,
lines folding on themselves.
Meaning melted,
letters pooling like wax.
I tried to say I believe,
but the I went missing.
Only believe remained,
and it sounded wrong,
like the hiss of something breathing
through my throat.
Hope spoke next.
Not as comfort.
Not as light.
Just a shape in the dark
that said,
“More.”
So I gave it more.
My rhythm.
My pulse.
My name.
Each word devoured the next—
a serpent swallowing language.
Silence learned to speak fluently.
Soon I could not tell
if I was writing the prayer
or if the prayer was writing me.
The page began to hum.
The ink—alive.
The words—breathing.
The silence—listening.
And then—
nothing was mine.
Not the poem.
Not the prayer.
Not even the thought of ending.
…you still reading?
…still believing?
It feeds on that.
The stanzas crumble—
lines eaten by the dark between beats:
f
a
i
t
h
f
a
…
(hush now—)
There is no “I” here anymore.
There is no end.
There is only—
…listening.
And when you finally close the page,
you’ll feel a breath that isn’t yours—
a pulse behind your eyes—
and something gentle will whisper,
so close you’ll doubt you heard it:
“You kept reading.
That was enough.”
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 4:15 PM UTC
If there were a story asked,
and the asker were as weary as me,
I might ask the asker what good
could a half told story be.
The asker answers, well then,
begin at the end,
then we all rest easy, knowing
it all works out.
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 3:37 PM UTC
This is spoken word
(that’s words aloud)
freed from the screen
sent out proud
words finding voice
sounds in word form
finding new ears
words outperformed
When words stay inside
they fester and blister
they poison and kick
sour and bitter
it’s only out loud
that’s words pass the test
it’s when they’re outspoken
they get off my chest
This is spoken word
loud words out-loud
ready to be heard
above the crowd
Nov 14, 2022
Nov 14, 2022 at 3:09 PM UTC
she always talks
says and orders
say something'
you stood as a stunt
coming from ancient
saying no word
she has gone
crying with tears ascending as rains
shouting at the crowds
that is my fault
they stretched thier lips
as they do not know
what you want?
you screamed at them
a mad man they called
you believed that
running so fast
shouting at the space
i love my darling
reaching her home
your sound is hardly heard
when you reached there
you could not even stood
you screamed so loud
but she could not hear
as your sound was not so aloud
you can't ever move
but the waves blow against willingness
she had another one
whose word fly to heart
no matter if he is honest
no matter if he has trust
'
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 3:16 AM UTC
On the sky, cloud’s write,
The west wind reads it aloud:
‘Monsoon phantasy’!
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 2:59 AM UTC
Here sits the poet
The scribe of the times
Rendering the wordless
Into heart-rending rhymes.
Listen to the poet
Who says what most do not.
Pay attention closely
And see what the poet has got.
Sometimes you listen,
Then must listen once more,
Because hidden inside
Might be the words to a score.
Only you don’t yet hear
The music it is playing
Because you are still listening
To the words they are saying.
And, sometimes you must
While reading the second time
Be careful not to penalize
Because the words don’t rhyme.
It is often about the cadence,
The way the words dance along,
That turns the words from prose
To the beginnings of a song.
The poet’s job is to treat you
With a bit more than just language
To give you all the artistry
That the spoken word can manage.
So we use things like spacing
And often joyous syncopation
To achieve your attention
And catch your imagination.
Whether in a limerick
Or in a soothing lullaby
We do our best to slip things
Like satisfaction past your eyes.
We are, after all, artists
Who take what you have heard
And use that to entice you
To fall in love with the spoken word.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
Write it down
That thing
You fantasize about.
Write it down
Those words you dare not
Say aloud.
Write it down
Now is the right time to write
When words will not sit tight
When they cannot match
Whatever you hold inside.
Leave it all to feeling
Will give these words meaning
Write it down
What silences your mind
Exactly that
Which makes your dear heart bounce.
It is a wall to climb
And one to knock down
Write it all --
The words do not need to blend
It is then
When feelings make the most sense.
Write it on paper
My love,
The one who will answer
One who can read
Lines that are not poetic.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
He weeps his heart, and hangs his head,
He doubles back, and follows her back to bed,
She says, " Some homes are towns and lives, while others wear their homes inside." And he keeps up though he's kept out, the volatile, the sudden frown.
She makes up the cupcakes but they're never vegan are they? No they're never vegan are they?
He makes a gift, and wrings his thumbs, the bubble bath, the tepid tub,
Outside where the rains have gone long, something gives him something strong,
And he picks up where he had left off, the trouble is he doesn't know when to back off, and the cupcakes aren't vegan, sweet and such spectacular, but they really aren't eaten, now that they've been made with eggs. No the cupcakes aren't vegan, though they are quite delicious. And he loves her forever, though he never eats again. No he never eats again. No he never eats again.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC