#literaryart - Hello Poetry

(The warehouse hums in ordered light; rain drums the roof beyond the night. Fluorescents stitch the rafters tight; the aisles run straight—a steel-boned sight.) Strange: The air is warm, the floor is clean, A temple built for bright and mean. Crates of silver, sealed in rows, Contain the future no one knows. I move like rumor, calm and planned, The keypad softens to my hand. They forge their gods from code and chrome— I crown those idols, then take them home. (A checkpoint blinks, the cameras pan; a barcode winks, reveals its plan. A breath, a shadow, keys that ring— a guard steps out to do his thing.) Guard: Hands up! Right now! Strange: Your voice is brave— But courage breaks against a wave. Sleep, watchdog. Let the silence keep. I pass like thunder after sleep. (Footsteps fade; the mezzanine keeps steady time, precise and clean. A second guard rounds row twelve-B; he startles hard at what he sees.) Guard: Don’t move! Strange: You tremble, yet you stand— I almost wish to shake your hand. But time is tight and art is stern; step back, be wise, let others learn. (A shout, a stumble, radios hiss; the aisle holds breath it will not miss. Then quiet folds the scene in two; the workflow hum resumes on cue.) Strange: Perfection sleeps in sterile steel, A heart that hums, a mind to feel. They hide the crown in numbered trays; I read the lock like prayer and phrase. A case unlatches—future’s grin; I pocket what the saints keep in. They’ll call it theft; I call it art— A pulse that chooses to depart. (Far sirens comb the wet-black streets; red-blue squares pulse heartbeat beats. A side-door shakes—a heavier tread; the aisle goes taut, the hum grows dread.) Detective: Templeton Strange—don’t move. Hands high. Strange: At last, a hunter who will try. You wear your nerve like fitted cloth; you smell of rain and righteous froth. Come closer, witness what you chase: a smile too sharp for mortal place. Detective: On your knees. Set down the case. Strange: You’d kneel a storm to make it safe. You think a pistol cages night? Then speak in powder. Prove you’re right. Detective: Last warning. Strange: Warnings wilt and fade; fire is the only vow you’ve made. (Two shots crack hard, clean, precise; they ping off ribs like marbles’ dice. Metal skates the polished ground; the echoes laugh, a bright, hard sound.) Detective: …What are you? Strange: A rule untamed, A threshold that refused its name. Call me Strange and hold your line— Names are the only cuffs that bind. Detective: You’re under arrest. Don’t test me, son. Put down the case. This night is done. Strange: Done? No—drawn. The outline’s mine. You bring a badge; I bring a sign. Look how your hand refuses shake— a worthy flaw I’d hate to break. (Forklifts sleep, their chargers glow; the fans keep breathing row by row. The loading bay looms straight ahead; a stripe of night like ink is spread.) Detective: You murdered guards. Strange: They barred the way. I cut the fuse that fed your day. Your order worships glass and speed— I serve the shadow under need. I let you live because you burn; the sharper edge is what I yearn. Detective: Put. It. Down. Strange: Art travels, friend. I’ll keep this piece until the end. Chase if you must; we both know how— Your oath is teeth; I like it now. (He walks the aisle in measured grace; the bay-door squares the storm’s dark face. He does not rush, he does not hide; he meets the rain with surgeon stride.) Detective (into radio): Shots fired—suspect heading south, Hit center mass, still running his mouth. Blue skin gleamed, his eyes burned bright, He smiled through gunfire, then fled into the night. He’s no machine, but he won’t go down— Like he wears the storm as a kind of crown. He moved like thought—too quick to trace, I swear the rain remembered his face. (The radio spits, the thunder replies; he lowers it slow, heat in his eyes. The warehouse stands in fluorescent hush; the storm outside keeps steady rush.) Detective (softly): What are you, Strange? What truth did I miss? (A voice drifts sweet as a venomous kiss; no body seen—just echo and hiss.) Strange: I’m what you see when mirrors weep, When conscience stirs but will not sleep. You hunt the crime; I am the cause— The flaw that breathes beneath your laws. (The storm swells thick, the lenses gleam; each pane repeats a swallowed scream. He turns—no figure claims the floor, just rippled eyes in every door.) Strange (fading): Remember me in every pane, In siren glass, in tempered rain. The night is mine—but so are you; Each fear you chase will bleed me through. (The thunder fades to furnace tune; the rafters hold a pallid moon. He stares—and sees, in polished blue, two green-lit eyes stare staring through.) Detective (whisper): …Reflections in ruin. (The hum resumes, exact, austere; outside, the storm keeps drawing near. The hunter breathes. The quarry’s gone. The aisle remembers what was done.)

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Feb 16

Feb 16, 2026 at 2:45 PM UTC

InkWept

Reflections in Ruin: The Ballad of Templeton Strange

(The warehouse hums in ordered light; rain drums the roof beyond the night. Fluorescents stitch the rafters tight; the aisles run straight—a steel-boned sight.) Strange: The air is warm, the floor is clean, A temple built for bright and mean. Crates of silver, sealed in rows, Contain the future no one knows. I move like rumor, calm and planned, The keypad softens to my hand. They forge their gods from code and chrome— I crown those idols, then take them home. (A checkpoint blinks, the cameras pan; a barcode winks, reveals its plan. A breath, a shadow, keys that ring— a guard steps out to do his thing.) Guard: Hands up! Right now! Strange: Your voice is brave— But courage breaks against a wave. Sleep, watchdog. Let the silence keep. I pass like thunder after sleep. (Footsteps fade; the mezzanine keeps steady time, precise and clean. A second guard rounds row twelve-B; he startles hard at what he sees.) Guard: Don’t move! Strange: You tremble, yet you stand— I almost wish to shake your hand. But time is tight and art is stern; step back, be wise, let others learn. (A shout, a stumble, radios hiss; the aisle holds breath it will not miss. Then quiet folds the scene in two; the workflow hum resumes on cue.) Strange: Perfection sleeps in sterile steel, A heart that hums, a mind to feel. They hide the crown in numbered trays; I read the lock like prayer and phrase. A case unlatches—future’s grin; I pocket what the saints keep in. They’ll call it theft; I call it art— A pulse that chooses to depart. (Far sirens comb the wet-black streets; red-blue squares pulse heartbeat beats. A side-door shakes—a heavier tread; the aisle goes taut, the hum grows dread.) Detective: Templeton Strange—don’t move. Hands high. Strange: At last, a hunter who will try. You wear your nerve like fitted cloth; you smell of rain and righteous froth. Come closer, witness what you chase: a smile too sharp for mortal place. Detective: On your knees. Set down the case. Strange: You’d kneel a storm to make it safe. You think a pistol cages night? Then speak in powder. Prove you’re right. Detective: Last warning. Strange: Warnings wilt and fade; fire is the only vow you’ve made. (Two shots crack hard, clean, precise; they ping off ribs like marbles’ dice. Metal skates the polished ground; the echoes laugh, a bright, hard sound.) Detective: …What are you? Strange: A rule untamed, A threshold that refused its name. Call me Strange and hold your line— Names are the only cuffs that bind. Detective: You’re under arrest. Don’t test me, son. Put down the case. This night is done. Strange: Done? No—drawn. The outline’s mine. You bring a badge; I bring a sign. Look how your hand refuses shake— a worthy flaw I’d hate to break. (Forklifts sleep, their chargers glow; the fans keep breathing row by row. The loading bay looms straight ahead; a stripe of night like ink is spread.) Detective: You murdered guards. Strange: They barred the way. I cut the fuse that fed your day. Your order worships glass and speed— I serve the shadow under need. I let you live because you burn; the sharper edge is what I yearn. Detective: Put. It. Down. Strange: Art travels, friend. I’ll keep this piece until the end. Chase if you must; we both know how— Your oath is teeth; I like it now. (He walks the aisle in measured grace; the bay-door squares the storm’s dark face. He does not rush, he does not hide; he meets the rain with surgeon stride.) Detective (into radio): Shots fired—suspect heading south, Hit center mass, still running his mouth. Blue skin gleamed, his eyes burned bright, He smiled through gunfire, then fled into the night. He’s no machine, but he won’t go down— Like he wears the storm as a kind of crown. He moved like thought—too quick to trace, I swear the rain remembered his face. (The radio spits, the thunder replies; he lowers it slow, heat in his eyes. The warehouse stands in fluorescent hush; the storm outside keeps steady rush.) Detective (softly): What are you, Strange? What truth did I miss? (A voice drifts sweet as a venomous kiss; no body seen—just echo and hiss.) Strange: I’m what you see when mirrors weep, When conscience stirs but will not sleep. You hunt the crime; I am the cause— The flaw that breathes beneath your laws. (The storm swells thick, the lenses gleam; each pane repeats a swallowed scream. He turns—no figure claims the floor, just rippled eyes in every door.) Strange (fading): Remember me in every pane, In siren glass, in tempered rain. The night is mine—but so are you; Each fear you chase will bleed me through. (The thunder fades to furnace tune; the rafters hold a pallid moon. He stares—and sees, in polished blue, two green-lit eyes stare staring through.) Detective (whisper): …Reflections in ruin. (The hum resumes, exact, austere; outside, the storm keeps drawing near. The hunter breathes. The quarry’s gone. The aisle remembers what was done.)

155

[R]ainclouds chew on sleepless cities, Rusted coins hum beneath our ribs. Rivers of static crawl through marrow, Rising—blind birds beneath the flood, Roots drinking from forgotten thunder. [I]nvisible fevers dance in mirrors, Ivory ghosts braid smoke through breath. Ink moons bloom inside the skull, Islands of pulse refuse to drown, Inventing dawns in their own shadow. [S]ilence stitches itself to tongues, Silver guilt drips through glass veins. Spines grow gardens of broken clocks, Stars whisper old courage to dust, Suffering curls, becomes a new seed. [E]arth cracks open its quiet grief, Echoes feed on hollow laughter. Eyelids burn—yet visions flower, Embers sculpt light from ruin’s mouth, Eternity hides in human ache. [N]ames dissolve in molten sleep, Night eats memory, slow and kind. Nerves hum like temples underwater, Naked faith drags its golden limbs, New suns hatch beneath the skin.

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Oct 25, 2025

Oct 25, 2025 at 11:14 AM UTC

ajit-saigal

R I S E N

[R]ainclouds chew on sleepless cities, Rusted coins hum beneath our ribs. Rivers of static crawl through marrow, Rising—blind birds beneath the flood, Roots drinking from forgotten thunder. [I]nvisible fevers dance in mirrors, Ivory ghosts braid smoke through breath. Ink moons bloom inside the skull, Islands of pulse refuse to drown, Inventing dawns in their own shadow. [S]ilence stitches itself to tongues, Silver guilt drips through glass veins. Spines grow gardens of broken clocks, Stars whisper old courage to dust, Suffering curls, becomes a new seed. [E]arth cracks open its quiet grief, Echoes feed on hollow laughter. Eyelids burn—yet visions flower, Embers sculpt light from ruin’s mouth, Eternity hides in human ache. [N]ames dissolve in molten sleep, Night eats memory, slow and kind. Nerves hum like temples underwater, Naked faith drags its golden limbs, New suns hatch beneath the skin.

25

Rick, your words do not just linger, they carve themselves in time— etched in truth, raw and bitter, yet softened by a poet’s rhyme. "I lie and I lie and I lie" You write not just of deception, but the weight of silence, the cost of peace, where love is masked in quiet restraint, and truth must wait for its release. "but when the truth arrives at that final moment; jaws will drop plates will shatter dogs will growl" Oh, how your verses strike like thunder, unafraid of the coming storm. For in the wreckage of unspoken words, your poetry dares to take its form. "stepfather all that pain and belittlement you served me day and night" Yet you stand unchained, unshaken, forgiveness rising where anger fell. Not just a poet, but a soul unbroken, turning torment into a tale to tell. "but now you stand before me weeping with no teeth and the big man within me has forgiven you." What strength, what grace, what mastery— not in vengeance, but release. A heart that bleeds yet still forgives, finding power in its peace. Rick, your ink is fire, your words are steel, unwavering, untamed, yet so real. A poet who walks the edge of pain, and turns it into art again. May your lines be read, your truth be known, for voices like yours must never go unsown.

0

Mar 8, 2025

Mar 8, 2025 at 4:43 AM UTC

Kuch_baatein_khud_se

Ink of Truth, Fire of Soul @Rick

Rick, your words do not just linger, they carve themselves in time— etched in truth, raw and bitter, yet softened by a poet’s rhyme. "I lie and I lie and I lie" You write not just of deception, but the weight of silence, the cost of peace, where love is masked in quiet restraint, and truth must wait for its release. "but when the truth arrives at that final moment; jaws will drop plates will shatter dogs will growl" Oh, how your verses strike like thunder, unafraid of the coming storm. For in the wreckage of unspoken words, your poetry dares to take its form. "stepfather all that pain and belittlement you served me day and night" Yet you stand unchained, unshaken, forgiveness rising where anger fell. Not just a poet, but a soul unbroken, turning torment into a tale to tell. "but now you stand before me weeping with no teeth and the big man within me has forgiven you." What strength, what grace, what mastery— not in vengeance, but release. A heart that bleeds yet still forgives, finding power in its peace. Rick, your ink is fire, your words are steel, unwavering, untamed, yet so real. A poet who walks the edge of pain, and turns it into art again. May your lines be read, your truth be known, for voices like yours must never go unsown.

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