I used to build words
like a carpenter—
lines hammered out
plank by plank
word for word,
like bridges
spanning waters
for anyone
eager to cross.

And now
I write to meet the page
like aching skin,
like quiet water
hesitant to ripple—
careful to bear a mark.

All the words
I’ve sent off—
paper boats,
adrift.

I let them all go,
travelers,
and bridges alike,
let them sink or rise—
and let the tide
bring the words
home.

We built
a tower
with hands
that did not know
how to touch.

It rose,
stone by stone.
Each word, a brick.
Each silence,
the mortar.
Promises—
vanishing into air.

We stood
at the bottom,
blaming the height
for our aches—
but the tower
was never
what broke us.

It doesn’t stay neat—
nothing does.
Not the room.
Not the mind.
Not the feelings
I have for you.

I spill everything out—
ink, blood, tears—
whatever I hold
too tight.

Even the rain
trips over itself,
but you call it
beautiful—
you always do.

Sometimes,
you back up into a corner,
not knowing what else to do—
you feel terribly alone,
and terribly blue.

You—
alone and blue,
backed into a corner.

Just remember—
feeling alone and blue,
you have backed into a very strong corner,
and life has your back.

So stand,
just a moment,
and breathe—just breathe
and know—
you are not so alone,
and not so blue.

The pears
bend the
crooked branches—
flushed
and drowsy
with sugar.

The juice waits
for something—
for its skin
to be bruised,
for a mouth
to bite in,
and when done
waiting—
suffer the wind
do what must
be done.

Fences fail quietly—
in a slow tilt,
colors give way,
surrendering—
a silent retreat
from brown to brittle.

I press a finger,
catch the rough
edge of metal,
its dust scratching my skin—
years thin us,
like coins drowned
in riverbeds.

It goes this way,
I think—
a long fade,
grit slipping
into dark water,
turning to mud,
just enough to remember
we once held on.

And I wonder if we, too,
were made to loosen,
to dissolve—
no shards or splinters,
just a long sigh—
as time corrodes
at our hearts,
turning all we were to rust.

When the sky turns to water,
hard and gray,
and the wind moves slow,
as if sadness has made it heavy,
I sit in a room
where the walls sigh.
The air is thick
with things unsaid,
but I wear my pain like a coat,
and it scares me
that it fits so well.

Then the walls start to close,
shadows stretching long,
a deep blue swallowing the floor.
I hear footsteps, but no open doors,
I reach, but the walls
offer nothing back.
This is the room of depression,
where time has no use for my name—
where the lonely screams
of the blood in my veins
fade before they find me.

A door creaks open,
but no one steps through—
grief enters like a storm—
rattling the windows,
dragging the scars of every goodbye
I never got to say.
I hear the scrape of empty chairs,
the ghosts of things
that should have remained.
Here, the air is salted
with old remorse,
and nothing I touch is real.

But somewhere,
far past these sunken feelings,
past the wind’s torment,
a brightly painted door waits.
I push it open—
let the sun stretch across my skin,
let the air smell like something fresh.
And though the past still haunts me
like dust in the corners,
I step out—
a little less broken,
a little more here,
a little more now,
in a house with four rooms.

The sun
has burned too long—
fields left hope in rags
grains shuddering
against
the wind’s heated tongue
enough to set fire
to the rain.

She runs her hands
through the ruin
palms sifting for life
aching
for the yield
that will not come—
nothing—
all husk
but one seed—
her renewal.

One step in—
the air bleeds thin,
heat curling at the walls,
lungs straining
beneath your brand—

One look—
the room sways,
the way fire bends
before it gives in to wind.

One smile—
a burning magnet,
searing my thoughts
laces undone with just a look—
knowing when to forget
how to hold back.

I meet you there—
skin against skin,
a shiver between shadows,
a heartbeat, staggered and wild.

Your mouth—
an invitation between gasps,
a tide swelling, slipping,
breath against breath,
falling further in.

Fingertips etch urges,
scrape constellations into skin,
the night between palms and sheets—
a hunger deeper than air.

You collapse,
the world now a quivering mess—
a slow-burning ruin,
softened into embers,
breathless—wanting more.

We hoard thoughts
like coins
that burn the pocket—
the less we have,
the harder it is
to let go.

We treasure their shimmer,
but in the end,
the vault remains bare
of what we hoped
to find—
what we were led
to believe.

We gather—
each passing thought,
as a leaf in a stream
that never stops
flowing away.

There is something quiet
in the way
the flowers bloom
against the gray,
among abandoned doorways
and forgotten walls,
as if they belong there—
their softness brushes
against decay,
like a secret
they aren’t trying to keep.

You stand still,
and time slows.
Nothing moves but a subtle drift,
nothing speaks
but the quiet cascade of petals—
growing where they shouldn’t,
thriving where the world
has grown tired.

It’s almost enough
to make you believe
in something—
a small kind of hope
that hides itself
in unexpected places,
waiting to be noticed.

The earth
too busy
never turns us gently—
its roots,
once slender,
now twist
like gritted teeth,
pulling tight
where we once were free.

We leave
an imprint
of our hands
in the soil,
searching for softness,
but only to find
something turned—
bitter, deeper.

No one sees them at first—
a shadow leaning
from the corners,
the slow hand that catches a vase
just before it shatters.

They work like rain—
quiet, unnoticed,
softening the world
in a way
you didn’t know was hard.

It’s the way
they keep their silence
between words,
tend to what frays—
their style blending
into the rhythm
of a place becoming itself again.

Later,
when the music stops,
when the lights dim low—
they are there—
stacking chairs,
sweeping the floor,
leaving no trace of their hands.

She imagines gripping the wheel—bone-tight,
white knuckles bracing against the storm,
her father’s hands still a shadow on hers,
calluses pressed into the curve of her palms.
The will of generations, lost to the tides,
coils through her fingers—her strength—
a force as boundless as the sea.

The lighthouse with its beam, cuts the dark—
a blade of light and shadow,
carving wounds into the cliffs.

The air clings—sharp with brine,
a slap, a bite, the sting of being alone.
She feels it—the terror of hulls splitting open,
the drowning sigh of rivets,
bending to the deep—
and still, she waits—
her heaving chest aching
of all she has lost and saved—
lives unknown to her.
The light turns slow—each revolution
a heartbeat trapped inside her stone walls.

When dawn unfurls,
it blends across the horizon,
purple and raw, spilling soft,
hues against restless waves.
She exhales, relieved,
the sun steals her guiding light.

She can rest again—
but the night will come again—
calling her name,
like a tide pulling her in,
to the light.

Her legacy.

I stand atop your tower
built from words we no longer share—
my soul once peered, admired and awed,
with your star-struck heart
and a knight in shining armor jones—
now I suffer a thousand-yard stare
of a battle-weary tease.

I wait above, hands empty,
wondering if the air between us
has always been this thin.
I watch as the horizon deepens,
stretching from dusk to dawn—
a vigil with no end.

Not a mislaid would-be princess in sight,
never that—but something smaller—
only unemployed, starved dickens
defeating the scorched countryside—
souls eager for your ravaged ***** and spilt milk,
roaming roads where you left behind
dusty footprints and battles long surrendered.

The stones are smooth,
each one perfect in its place.
Your walls press against the clouds,
against my patience—
I am put to shame,
exposed to a dead language.

My mind and body grow rampant—
I dream of what might happen
if the mortar gave way,
if bricks tumbled,
and all this distance crumbled—
to feel the earth under my hands again,
and paint you in moss and ginger,
dust and grit grounding my fingertips—
remembering all that once was.

I am torn—
between the sacred and the scarce,
between walls that claw at the heavens
and the raw ache below.

There is a kind of holiness here,
even in the dirt and dust—
the way it rises, coats my skin,
fills my lungs.
I think of your hands—
how they might feel,
how they left me in shreds—
drenching me in wet dreams.

And though I wait,
against your impossible walls,
I know the truth—
even the strongest tower
will crumble,
even the loneliest heart
will fall to the ground.

I unspool the silence,
shed the smallness
in my head.

I take it all in,
let my voice swell—
and no longer ask
permission to exit the room.

A stag lifts its head,
moonlight drapes across its back—
the woods watched over.

The past—
moth-wings, dust-thin,
dissolving at touch—
markings
worn thin
as river stones,
voices replaced
by the wind—
only faint rustles
remain—
blended into
the silence of time—
who remembers
the hands
that built
the forgotten roads,
the scratch
of ink
before it dried
on a forgotten parchment.

Somewhere,
a hand
once carved truth
into stone—
now the rain
speaks of it
but no one listens.

Always
I thrived for little—
a quiet love
a tenderness to offer
like a brook
small and humble
seeking the next bend
toward the ocean—
knowing kindness
is offered
in playing a small part.

Time feels heavy
for some—
a boat adrift
floating aimless
a love wanting to bloom
words falling
like rain on thirsty ground—
I learned
to swallow—
hard and fast.

I carry
what I gave away—
a suitcase of unspoken words
all the hope
from one look
one touch
a soft offering
barely standing—
but never forgotten.

Beneath the soft-spun green,
where stone and root rest in silence,
moss gathers itself.

It clings, quietly—
with soft shades of green,
cradling close the forgotten—
a fallen branch,
broken walls,
blanketing the injured places
left to time.

Moss teaches us to rest
in a gathering of dark places,
where eyes have no reason
to remain shut.
It is a slow healing after sorrow—
the way the world forgives itself.

Walk with care—
where moss stretches,
with a patience that heals
and forgives—
forever enduring,
forever moss.

Beauty is measured
by how much
my knees bend—
gravity’s quiet courtship
the earth insisting
on closeness

Not the tilt
or the slack of my jaw
the slow spill of light
on my cheek
the angle at which
I yield—
to the sheer amount
of oos and awes
to the slight dip of a petal
before it falls

Your beauty does not ask
for much—only for
a gesture of reverence—
explaining why
I am on my knees
every time
I see you

If I sit too long, time gathers in my chest,
as my mind sees the finish line waiting for me—
It makes it hard to breathe
not from the aches of the world,
but from the slow diminishment of time—
my own.

I find myself caught,
between the urge to fight
and the desire to let go,
between wanting to stay
and fearing I’ve overstayed
my welcome.

I wish I could run backward in time—
through rain-soaked streets
where I should have spoken,
to rooms filled with words
I swallowed down.

To rewrite a road already traveled—
I’d keep close only a few,
kind souls etched in love and loss,
and have us meet on softer roads
and brighter dawns,
let love linger longer—
so much longer—
before it learns to fade away.

But the clock never bends,
so I dwell in tiny moments,
trading the vastness of tomorrow
for the precious depth of just one day—

There is comfort in knowing
not all battles are won
with clenched fists
or held breaths.

I have no wars left to fight—
only the love for others left in me,
fading to purple, barely breathing—
but finally unmoored.

I am the boulder that never said no
feet in the seafoam
hands full of sky.

A poet unmoored always returning—
to shadowbox with waves
and trace figure eights
in the palms of ghosts—
to write themselves into the wind
and carry your pain away.

A lunchbox of wisdom
a tree of light
a hug just for you waiting—

Round around.

I was a boy once, with dreams,
fishing on a quiet morning,
hands small but certain,
proud of the two trout I caught.

Then rain—sudden, rushing,
a downpour chasing us home.
I ran through the wet courtyard,
tucked my rod and gear away.
I forgot the fish, one and two—
how bad could it be really,
when they’re out of my mind,
out of my view?

Days passed, memory gone—
I went back fishing, bag in hand.
I reached for my bag,
hand sliding in—deep, deep,
fingers meeting something soft,
whiteness writhing with maggots.
The floor caught my stomach—
I never fished for trout again.

For twenty-five years,
I never thought of the fish,
never smelled rot or decay,
never saw the writhing mass—
nothing, nothing at all—
but the body remembers.

At dinner, trout on my plate,
first bite, second bite — fine.
Third—my stomach clenched,
a nausea I could not explain,
why the plate was pushed away—
but the body remembers.

Years and years, over and over,
when trout lay on my plate, same
story, same nausea, same plate
pushed away without knowing
why—

The body remembers.

It took years to finally ask—
what does the body remember
that the mind chose to bury.

I sat quietly with myself,
let myself drift, let the body
tell me a secret it was never
meant to forget.

At first, nothing but impatience—
a shudder, a tightening of breath.
I stayed—I let it come, let it rise,
this boy with hands so small,
pushing me deep inside.

I screamed, I cried, I made quite
a stir—the floor had to catch my
stomach again when I got wet,
drowned in a white flood
of rot and decay.

And then, quiet—
the moment passed through me—
quiet—pure, peaceful quiet.
I have no words to describe
the silence my body gifted me
for finally remembering.

Now, I eat.
Now, I remember.
Now, I fish,
and my body doesn’t flinch—
but the body always remembers.

I stand in the hollow of night,
where silence drapes like a second skin—
thick, unmoving, a wound
stitched shut with my own hands.

The Keeper kneels beside me,
palms open, as if gathering dust.
Her ribs are a locked door, where
she keeps pain from harming others—
her voice an echo she swallowed.
Pain nests in the crook of her collarbone,
tucked away where no one can reach,
where even the wind forgets to look.

The Bleeder is near too—
a storm dragging its nails across the dark.
He spits out rage in poison-dipped syllables—
the night flinches beneath his breath.
He is all jagged, all reckless, all out—
the kind of flame that does not warm,
only burns, only consumes.

The Keeper whispers,
words soft as a bouquet of flowers—
a quiet ache—a heavy toll for just one.
The Bleeder snarls, that’s all he knows,
shaking his fists at the sky,
as if anger alone can unmake the past.

I am between them—
one foot in silence, ready to cover
one foot in fire, ready to lunge.
I feel them both inside me—
the silence that suffocates,
the fury that devours.

And I wonder—
which one will I become,
when the night finally calls my name.

A prison does not need walls—
walls are expensive,
heavy-lifting things cost too much—
we have a better plan.

Slip them between the lines
of a contract they never signed,
bind them in fine print,
wrap them in a sentence
with no punctuation.

Easy to catch them—
tree huggers and nature lovers,
prose-chanting marginal misfits.
Catch them all—
with screens,
blue light,
and keystrokes—
map their dreams before
they even sleep.

This is how we do it—
not with chains,
but with slow grind
and mental erosion.

We will file them down,
soften them into compliance,
they do not need bars—
hell, and a toothpick,
we don’t even need to pay for guards
their ripe minds will build cages
when we stick them
in a pixel or
paper prison.

Yes, Prime Minister,
we will get right on it, sir.

Teaching right from wrong
for a world made kinder—
a fork in your road.

Elder Trees
Their trunks bend and creak,
never do they collapse—
strength is in silence.

Silence—
a draft in an attic
with nowhere to go
slipping under a door
holding its breath
until it forgets itself.

It is the cracked cup
hidden at the back
of the cupboard
turned upside down
as if laid to rest.

It is the nest
in a bare branch
at winter’s cold fist—
the ache
of having been left behind.

Silence stretches itself
thin—over the night’s spine.
It is the single leaf—
caught mid-fall
held in the wind’s soft hand
never to be let go.

It stirs
a quiet defiance—
the walls ache with it—
heavy as love too shy to speak
fragile as a memory
melting into dark.

Speak the word [fɔːrˈmɪd.ə.bəl]—
standing tall as a mountain,
unwavering with reverence and respect
and unparalleled demeanor.

Dire le mot [fɔʁmidabl]—
avec la caresse d’une brise,
pour mettre tranquille un coeur
dans le silence d’un abri fidèle.

Speak the word
and take up the sword—
dire le mot
et prendre le bouclier.

Pour elle,
fille de clan—
je prendrai les deux.
For her,
precious daughter of the clan—
I will be both,
un ami [fɔʁmidabl],
a [fɔːrˈmɪd.ə.bəl] friend.

A poem
should be tight
and have so many
words—
there,
I said it.

From the desk
of a self-aware paradoxical meta-poem.

Pear against my lips—
late snack under the stars,
porch light flickers.