#mythiclove
In the lap of dusk where tea leaves steep,
He held my world in hands so deep
My maternal grandpa, not merely man,
But angel-wrought in mortal span.
His smile: a sanctum, heaven-spun,
No ego, no pride, no need to run.
A soul uncluttered, pure and wide,
Where simplicity chose to reside.
We roamed the market, betel leave in hand,
A duo stitched by love’s command.
Egg and toast from fingers fed,
While I, the slow cow, bowed my head.
He never tired, never sighed,
As I delayed each bite, tongue-tied.
Even when my breath betrayed,
He sealed the frost with lips of aid
Drawing the chill from my nose bound grief,
Like winter kissed by autumn’s leaf.
Fifteen piggy banks he gave
A kingdom coined, a love so brave.
My whims, his law; my joy, his creed,
He sowed affection, not just deed.
Weekends bloomed with his arrival,
Fast food feasts, love’s revival.
Though Mummy’s hands were novice then,
He dreamt of dishes, now and when.
But now he sleeps beneath the loam,
While I craft verses in his home.
He wished me health, gave Allah his breath,
And walked alone into his death.
His voice dissolved, his limbs grew still,
Yet blankets found me by his will.
A paralysed grace, a fading light,
Still shielding me through silent night.
He built his life from betrayal’s ash,
No venom, no revenge, no clash.
Educated hearts he raised with toil,
From fractured roots, he claimed his soil.
He died one day past my birth,
A cruel eclipse of joy and worth.
I was eight, too young to see
The depth of what he meant to me.
Now tears arrive like monsoon rain,
Each drop a relic of sweet pain.
I speak to ghosts in silent air,
And feel his wisdom everywhere.
He was not man, but mythic flame,
A lapborne star with no acclaim.
And though he’s gone, he walks beside
In every choice, in every tide.
So let this poem be his shrine,
A verse-bound grave, a sacred sign.
For angels wear no wings or crown
They feed you toast when you feel down.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 11:40 PM UTC
You liked it
when I said
you reminded me
of a character
from a book I once read.
Hades.
You don’t want to save the girl,
but you awaken in her
the complex of being saved.
You are not gentle,
not tender,
not soft.
You are raw, intense—
a fire that never burns out.
You are cruel and merciless.
You leave innocent girls
dreaming of more,
when in truth
you only wanted
to satisfy your own desire.
Oct 14, 2025
Oct 14, 2025 at 6:57 PM UTC
O sea of all time,
first cradle of breath and bone,
your voice sings through us—
a song from when we were scales,
gilled and glittering,
dancing in your moonlit depths,
our bodies silver
threads of foam and memory
woven with seaweed.
We once called you home,
our mother and secret bride,
salt still on our tongues,
our hearts pulled by your rhythm,
like tide and moon drawn
in that old sacred duet
too deep to forget.
The tales call us land—
but what is earth but a pause
from your lullabies?
You who swallow ancient wrecks
and sing to ruins
like a widow who still waits
with hair full of pearls,
we grieve with you every night
as you breathe in waves.
Perhaps we all hear
your voice when the gulls cry out,
or when stars reflect—
perhaps our urge to return
is your whispered name
calling in our blood again
from some lost coral
palace where we once belonged
with tails and sea-song.
You mourn, we believe—
not just for Atlantis sunk,
but the footed ones
who once shed their fins for love
and never came back.
The mermaid who walked away
left you with silence
and a tide that won't forget
the cost of her tears.
That is why you storm.
That is why you rage and crash,
hurling broken shells—
because love left and betrayed,
and never returned.
That is why you kiss the shore,
with such aching force,
hoping it remembers you
each time it dries you.
Yet, you calm again,
blue mirror of lost desire,
as if you forgive
just long enough to reflect
the lovers who walk
hand in hand, barefoot and warm,
their shadows merging
as if love was made for waves
and skin was just foam.
You loved and lost us—
and now you call with soft songs,
seducing the shore,
longing for feet to return
to scaled purity.
But we, traitors to our gills,
have learned to walk far—
so we visit now and then,
but we do not stay.
Still, I know your heart.
I too am like your heartbreak—
loving what I lost,
carving a shell with her name,
listening for her
in the echo of the conch,
where her voice might live,
and the sea might hold her breath
the way I once did.
I love Yongsun so—
her name rings in every wave,
in each crest of blue,
she’s the salt that seasons me,
preserving my soul.
The great black pearl of the deep,
shard of Atlantis,
no tide could ever contain
her boundless bright light.
She is Poseidon's
jealous hymn to what he loves,
a siren with wings,
and I am but a sea-song,
humming to her feet—
hoping she returns again
and walks by my side,
where sea meets the mortal earth,
where hearts taste of brine.
Let the sea weep, love.
Let it cry for all we lost,
for all that we are—
but know this: when I see you,
I see ocean fire.
I see the endless abyss,
and I do not fear—
for my love runs deep as tides,
and you are my sea.
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 11:08 AM UTC