The spirit's board, a chess of silent grace,
Where goals, like pawns, find their appointed space.
Invest like rooks, in wisdom's sacred lore,
Mindful as bishops, what paths to explore.

Like queen, a heart that counsels, serves, and mends,
A gentle nurture, where true kindness blends.
Control your knights, your senses wild and free,
No overreach, in silent dignity.

Each day a gambit, new and bright unfold,
Accept the check, where patience makes you bold.
Forgive the captures, learn from every snare,
Humility's white king, beyond compare.

Black and white it seems, the boxes we stand
It's good, bad, all moves can't be preplanned
So with time, make the best of it
A soul is its very own mate.

If only I could stare into your deep blue eyes forever,
that I might get a glimpse into your soul.

If you'd dance with me once more,
so I can feel your hands on my waist.

If you kiss me just once,
I'm afraid you'd make me believe in love.

There sits on the bank of a river
A child all dressed up in gold
As she sits on the bank she is crying
And the wind is sharp, silver, and cold

Her dress lies in pools all around her
And the skirt is encrusted with jewels
Which glint just like stars in the darkness
As she cries for this world made of fools

A lover who charmed and abandoned
Such a tale of unforeseen woe
That had swooped like a bat from the darkness
And delivered an unwanted blow

And these teardrops that fall from her lashes
Each one of them turns to a pearl
That lands on the dark fertile soil
And they grow into plants that unfurl

And this garden that grows up around her
Is in colors as bright as the sun
And the flowers that blossom and open
Are in hues that appear every dawn

And she sits and she cries and she mourns
In that dress for the richest of queens
And she looks at the beauty around her
The leafs are in all different greens

She looks at the tall trees and creepers
And she gazes at the long tangled vines
She lifts up her head and she marvels
At the flowers of all different kinds

But they cannot acquit her of sorrow
They cannot rid her of pain
So she walks into the river of water
Never to come up again

And the river it carries her sadness
It's burdened with all of her griefs
And the water is glossy like pearls
Gently sway the overhanging leafs

As her body is carried beneath them
And they sing a whispering song
For the child who cried them to being
And mourned for the things that were wrong

There sits on the bank of a river
Many trees all dressed up in gold
As they sit on the bank they are crying
And the wind is sharp, silver, and cold

Beneath the arch,
        among the branches,
      the maunder of her eyes
           finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
    explicit and indivisible,
        every reflection is her,
      there she looks close
       for gracefulness,
            in the essays of her skin
               and their brazen transparencies,
         she enters into her body fable,
      the shape of her resembles
           the tenor viol: where it widens,
                  where it narrows,
                where it digresses
              and monochromes,
           she reflects a fragile geography,
             a soft cargo, but
               an inkling of hurricane,
             rendering the fault lines
          beautiful and strong,
       in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
   until she's become her own lullaby

Lilac hush —
earth, half-waking,
baroque birdsong.

Moss curls ,
dew beads on nettle’s tongue —
small, glassy prayers.

wind —
silk-handed seamstress —
stitches light into every leaf,
veiling the world — breath and bloom.

Bones of old trees cradle the sun’s milk,
wildflowers nestle in their ribs —
what dies here, lives softer.

river, translucent and slow,
spills silver veins , the skin of the valley —
a quiet pulse beneath the green.

Somewhere between sky and soil,
we become the silence —
lungs folding into pollen-laden air,
fingertips brushing the hem of forever.

Nothing belongs.
Nothing is apart.

In the meantime,
the world remakes itself —
petal by petal, wing by wing —
and we, fragile passengers,
are simply learning how to listen.

Bare feet kissing marble’s chill,
fingertips tracing teak and dusk,
air thick as mulled velvet—
honeyed, heavy, slow.

She moves where silence frays,
light spills like sugared wine,
breath lingers like an unshed sigh—
never still, never caught.

Fluorescence hiccups across her skin,
pavement inhales her weight,
a flicker, a glitch, a sliver of absence—
half-held, half-gone.

She dances where gravity forgets,
shadows soften like overripe fruit,
laughter drips slow as melting wax—
feral, fleeting, free.

She is not waiting to be found—
she is, and that is enough.