Man  can be pugilistic
With time ,with self
The clock that shouts
In the morning light
A cloud
Like a wet soggy blanket
It's relentless pursuit to cover my head
This day will rejuvenate with swollen intent
Cobwebs a mere obstacle
Callous hands caress, alleviate
The roots of adolescence
A perpetual child is my fate

Five of Cups.
I keep clinging
to the spilled wine,
wishing it would return
to the glass—
but it never will.

And now I wonder:
which one of them
is the spilled wine?
Which one
can’t I let go?

Like a tree
I have lived
Every mark I carry
is one of my victories
scars of war
That’s why
I love myself
because I am still here

Marina likes to play
She holds the universe as her toy
Her fingers radiate
On the frenzy of the vibes.

Riding the subway
I realize there are so many people
so many people, really
I wonder if all of them
are okay

A cognitive shift
Seeing the reality.
A state of awe
With transcendent quality.

When hit by the truth -
An overwhelming emotion.
Appreciation of beauty,
Increased sense of connection.

Shift in self-concept,
It could be transformative.
Sense of fragility
From a different perspective.

Just one;
and the crowd disappears.  
Not the noise,  
but the ache beneath it.  

Your robe sweeps  
like the edge of a memory  
too sacred to name,  
too silent to forget.  

I didn’t ask.  
Didn’t shout.  
Just reached,  
as if the gravity of healing  
could be borrowed  
in a breath.  

Blood listens.  
Shame stills.  
Every fracture sings  
beneath skin mended  
by mercy  
I dared not deserve.

You turned.  
Not to scold,  
but to see me,
the me behind the reaching.  

And that touch?  
It was not mine.  
It was yours,  
returning everything  
I didn’t know I’d lost.