4-** Metal

All touched by hand, all glimpsed by eye,
Flavors tasted, feelings held deep inside.
Love's embrace, hate's sharp cutting edge,
Distrust's cold shadow, treasures kept safe.
Gifts bestowed, fates dealt in silence,
Purchases made, pleas whispered low.
Stolen moments, borrowed time's fleeting grace.
Each action etched, each word spoken true.

My soul seeks The Unseen Side, a quiet within the veiled truth,
Why does the light dim, when all was meant to be whole?
This inner realm, where creation takes form,
And destruction sweeps through, leaving traces.
Every choice, every utterance, a ripple sent forth.
The sustenance taken, faces met along the way.
Slighted feelings, conflicts fiercely waged.
I ponder now, what was, what fades, what lies ahead.
The world sings in tune, a cosmic alignment.

The sun shines, its warmth on every living thing,
All that exists, beneath its constant gaze.
The present moment, a fleeting breath,
What has vanished, swallowed by time's flow.
And all that waits, yet to unfold,
Under the vast, encompassing sky.
A silent rhythm, a perfect balance,
Where every element finds its place.

Yet, my spirit finds The Unseen Side, the moon's cold arc across the vibrant sun,
For there is no true dark side, only endless night.
Why does this veil descend, upon such clear accord,
And cast a long shadow on truth's pure light?
Each consumed thought, every brief encounter,
All slights perceived, every battle fought.
The now, the past, the future's distant call.
I stand beneath the muted sky, seeking clarity.
The sun eclipsed, its brilliance momentarily lost.

Dawn breaks, too early, a hollow sound,
My sleep undone, on restless ground.
Your absence echoes, a constant ache,
Each waking moment, for your sake.

I tried to push, to feel the cold,
Of silence given, a story told.
But fear outweighs, a lonely dread,
That you are lost, words left unsaid.

Your Whispered Truths, I hold them tight,
Against the shadows of the night.
My mind spins tales, of what might be,
Then trust prevails, you'll come to me.

Our pasts entwined, a fragile grace,
A bond we formed, in time and space.
A reason hides, behind the veil,
Let not that reason, make us fail.

You are my world, my beating core,
Without your light, I'm nothing more.
A fading breath, a darkened sky,
A broken heart, where dreams all die.

I seek to lift, to bring you cheer,
But distance breeds, a rising fear.
My words descend, to somber tone,
A heavy weight, I bear alone.

My love persists, a burning flame,
This ride we share, beyond all blame.
First touch, first kiss, a future bright,
Awaits us still, in morning's light.

I'll wait, I'll write, I'll hold you near,
Until you speak, and banish fear.
Please, let me know, what holds you fast,
Let this dark silence, be the last.

Each day a letter, sent with care,
A silent plea, upon the air.
If you desire, I'll walk away,
Just speak the word, and end this day.

The map unfurls,
irrelevant.
Any point touched by your light
becomes the center.

Late nights breathe,
under a sky dusted with stars,
and the pull,
irresistible,
of a gaze that anchors me.

Let them watch,
the curious eyes,
the fleeting judgments.
Within your orbit,
I am home.

No gilded cage,
no borrowed glamour,
just the quiet hum
of two souls entwined,
making the mundane shimmer.

Absence,
a hollow echo.
The world muted,
awaiting the vibrant hue
of your return.

Moonlight spills,
a silent invitation
to a space where only
tenderness resides,
painting moments eternal.

Each shared step,
a soft rhythm against the quiet,
anywhere, everywhere,
soaked in the indelible rain
of this boundless affection.

the saddest part of dying
is what you forgot to do
the ideas born in lucid dreams
that vanished in the hue
the mountains never seen
the oceans never crossed
the poems written on scraps of paper
a lover's smile now lost
the tears you held inside
the chances never taken
the landscape of your life
an oasis now forsaken

where the hell am I
I don't recognize this place
we are led like cows to slaughter
blind to this disgrace
we take their poisons with a grin
while they get filthy rich
they play us like a lab of rats
then kick us to the ditch
our taxes buy their mansions
the market is their bank
they wallow in their sick perversions
their eyes are dark and blank
this is the final scene
where we proceed or wave the towels
do we let these ******* get away
or feed them to the cows

There is a fire that consumes quietly,
its fingers tender as they trace the outlines
of things we were once too afraid to burn.
A heat, soft as loss,
devouring without asking —
like the stars that fall
in silent bursts,
vanishing without a sound
but leaving the night warm,
like the stillness after the storm.

I sit by the hearth,
the flames licking at the silence,
as if they know
that destruction wears the face
of something fragile —
the way a lover leaves,
softly, as though they were never there,
and yet, the room remains
so full of them
you wonder
if absence could fill a space
with something deeper than presence.

The fire speaks in ashes,
as if to say,
"I was once the sun,
and I, too, will set."
But still, I reach my hands toward it,
searching for the warmth
of things that vanish —
the way a poem disappears
on the page,
leaving graphite stains
in the shape of absence,
telling you everything
without a word.

The hearth hums with the quiet
of things undone —
a quietness like the seamless
works of Rilke,
where the evening spreads its wings
like a forgotten prayer
that no one remembers to say.

Here, too, in this soft destruction,
there is no voice
but the one that burns the edges
of every thought
until it is nothing but the flicker
of light you cannot hold.

I burn not because I wish to be
consumed,
but because I know
that some things must be lost
before they can be remembered,
like the way the heart still beats,
long after the body forgets
how to feel.

And the hearth,
a poet in its own right,
sings a hymn of things
we cannot keep —
the fire dancing
in the shape of what we leave behind,
warm,
and empty,
like a song that was never meant to end.

The light breaks like tired glass
soft, strained, unsure of itself.
It falls across the orchard in gold
and bruises, where apples rot gently
at the foot of trees that no longer bother
to reach for the sun.

The equinox comes
like someone you once loved
standing in your doorway,
saying nothing.

For a moment
the world holds its breath.
Light and dark,
neck and neck.

And then the balance tips.
Always, it tips.

I walk through fields gone hollow with wind.
The air tastes of iron, and endings.
Leaves give up without a fight now —
not a blaze, not a fury,
just a quiet letting go,
and I envy them.

There is a kind of mercy
in falling.
There is a kind of grace
in becoming less.

Still, I am full of ache.
My chest is a hearth
where no one's embraced in years.
The fire cold,
the ice forming.

I call out to the sky,
but even the crows have left —
even the dusk seems uninterested
in staying.

They say the veil is thinnest now.
That what’s gone
leans close to what’s still here.
So I sit in the dirt
and hope some version of myself
might return with the fog.
The one who knew how to feel full.
The one who believed in light
even as it fled.

But the sun slips down like a secret,
and the night arrives hungry.
The stars blink like distant answers
to questions I no longer ask.

And I think
maybe this is it.
Maybe I am meant to lie fallow,
a field in waiting.

Not dead.
Not alive.
Just brimming with the quiet
of what might one day grow again.