(aka Axpinet, Diagemet, Glucient, Glucophage, Metabet)

Where glucose charts its peaks and slides,
Metformin steadies from inside.
Not flashy, not loud, no trumpet or drum,
Just quiet resolve in a bloodstream hum.

Axpinet whispers through morning routines,
Diagemet glides past pastry dreams.
Glucient steadies the body's sway,
While Glucophage clears the fog away.

Metabet, too, with its gentle might,
Turns glucose tides from storm to light.
No cure, no crown, no magic spell.
Just a partner where resilience dwells.

It doesn’t boast, it doesn’t bend,
But walks beside us like a friend.
In rituals of breath and bite,
It helps us dance with blood’s delight.

So here’s to the pill with many names,
That plays no tricks, but steadies games.
A quiet hero in the health parade.
Metformin, in all the forms it's made.

One breath – too low.
One blink – too high.
The body sings in tremble and sigh.

🩸
Before the sun stirs and sugar slips,
The world tilts sideways, soft into eclipse.
Hands flutter like moths in a jar,
Thoughts dissolve where the shadows are.

Tongue tastes cotton, knees go slack.
A whisper: “Eat.” A memory: “Back.”
The pulse is a metronome gone wild,
A grown-up heart, a frightened child.

🍬
Then comes the climb, the sugar surge,
A molten tide, a frantic urge.
Eyes blaze neon, thirst unquenched,
Skin electric, muscles clenched.

The mind, a carnival of noise,
Too fast to feel, too loud for poise.
Breath is syrup, thick with heat,
A body swollen, incomplete.

⚖️
Between these poles, a tightrope walk,
A silent pact, a daily talk.
The meter beeps, the ritual starts,
A dance of numbers, charts, and hearts.

Not broken, just tuned to extremes,
Living in thresholds, chasing dreams.
Each spike, each drop, a coded song
Of staying here, of moving on.

for Geof, on the edge of knowing

They called it Type Two.
Not a curse, not a crime;
just a whisper from the bloodstream:
“You’ve crossed a line.”

Not a cliff, but a curve.
Not a fall, but a shift.
The body, once silent,
now speaks in glycaemic glyphs.

🩸
I felt it first in the fog,
the slow syrup of thought,
the thirst that sang louder
than reason e'er taught.

A diagnosis, they said.
A name for the tide.
But I heard it as poetry:
“Your sugar’s got pride.”

🍬
So I mapped it in spirals,
in mirror and flame,
in placemats of ritual
that honour the name.

I stitched it in textiles,
in breath and in bite,
in the kink of control
and the flare of the fight.

⚖️
Now I walk with the meter,
a partner, not foe.
I count not just carbs,
but the places I grow.

This isn’t surrender.
It’s a new kind of spell.
A body in balance,
a story to tell.

Wield your words like running streams,
To conjure truth from fractured dreams.
Let language bend, let silence speak,
With power tender, fierce, and sleek.

Trace the edges of what's unsaid,
Where longing lingers, soft or red.
Let vowels tremble, consonants bite,
Unmasking shame in morning light.

Speak in spirals, chant in flame,
Name the ache that has no name.
Your verses ripple, raw and wide,
A tide of pride we will not hide.

So wield your words, your sacred art,
To mend the cracks in every heart.
Let rhythm rise, let meaning swell,
And cast your spell where silence fell.

When I am lost, my shadow is still with me.  
It doesn’t ask for direction.  
It doesn’t rush.  
It simply follows,  
soft-footed and patient,  
like memory without judgment.

I wander through questions,  
through days that blur at the edges,  
and still
there it is,  
stretching beside me in morning light,  
curling beneath me at dusk.

It knows the shape of my doubt.  
It’s traced every ache,  
every pause,  
every almost.

And though I feel alone,  
I am never unseen.  
My shadow stays  
not to guide,  
but to witness.

Shadowing Still

When I am lost, my shadow is still with me.  
God is also my shadow
not above, not beyond,  
but beside me,  
folded into the hush between footfalls.

No thunder, no decree.  
Just the soft echo of presence  
in the curve of my doubt,  
the warmth behind me  
when I cannot face the sun.

God does not lead.  
God lingers.  
God waits in the outline I cast  
when I forget how to pray.

And maybe that’s grace
not the path,  
but the patience  
to walk with me  
even when I wander.

Snap.  
    Curl.  
        Trace.  
            Flick.  
       ­         Pause---  
                    Breath.  
               ­         Bound.  
                            Beg.  
            ­                    Yield.  
                                    ­Yes.  
                                        Again.

.        light                     shadow  
       rising                      falling  
      golden               ­     rusted  
     bloom                     hush  
    barefoot                 boo­tprint  
   jasmine                 cider  
  dare                      gather  
spark                    rest  
  rise                       fall
   tilt                         tilt  
    hush                     hush  
     breath                 breath  
     pause                  pause  
     now                     now  
     pause                  pause  
     breath                 breath  
    hush                     hush  
   tilt                           tilt  
  fall                            rise  
rest                             spark  
  gather                      dare  
   cider                      jasmine  
    bootprint           barefoot  
     hush                 bloom  
      rusted            golden  
       falling          rising  
        shadow     light