I keep knocking on the wrong windows.
I keep closing doors
that no one will ever need.

Perhaps it is faith
that will speak through me—
tender, woundable,
in love with madness.

Silence—
silence resembles a scream
stuck midway through eternity.
They say
melancholy still echoes
with your loneliness.

I don’t overdo my smile;
what matters is the moment
that strips us of eternity,
saves us from the end
of being human.

I cannot live when your heart
errs in its calculations.
I cannot love
until the body belongs to the soul.

Rise—
lean over my cradle;
it’s brimming with sleepless associations,
unfinished answers.

You return, though you know:
your glances toward the world
are bloodless.
Just as empty—your dreams,
too ashamed to be dreamed.

You are close enough
to resurrect silence,
to strip the world of shadows.
Your thoughts wander
along the same worn paths;
tears flow
against the current of sorrow.

I am too lost to believe
in longing.
Perhaps tomorrow
will bring at least one memory.

The venomous present
will turn into
an unfinished autobiography.
Perhaps God will teach us
to wait—slowly.

A night will bloom within us,
a night no one dares
to name aloud.
I become a body
awaiting a prelude to freedom.

My unrest is steeped in humility.
Fear, though tamed,
still begs for a trace of attention.

I loved you
until the final heartbeat;
I saw a tomorrow that would anoint
the future.

You returned my dream,
untouched, unmarked by use.
A crumpled memory preludes
reality.

A sold tomorrow echoes the pride
so difficult to confront.
Reality is the mistake—
on its knees
I lay my fear.

Perhaps tenderness
will make dawn more bearable?
Perhaps truth
will break free from longing’s reign?
I don’t want to be a life
that arrived too late for its own beginning.

The body clings tightly
to the past.

My defiant timelessness! I return
to carry you freedom.
I am here so you may understand
even the body deserves a soul.

Your prayer lasted
too long—even laughter
grew overly lyrical.
I borrowed, without permission,
what might have turned to emptiness.

An overflow
no one expected.

I died midweek,
the wind scattered dreams. Is it a sin
to keep thinking of storms?
Does innocence curse humility?

I don't know. I remember one thing: I will become
a present moment everyone envies.
I will turn my back to the light.
I will make fate find
its own, unrepeatable name.

This morning’s dream reminded me
of a will long lost.
The night that abandoned me
turned out to be a petty alibi.

Beneath my eyelids
I hid yesterday’s tears;
eternity once again
became my ally.

I knelt mid-word—
never thought conscience
could ache so deeply.

Tears soak into skin. Instead of the sky,
today I see in you
a haven, safe and still.
I see chaos—and revel in it.

I will no longer wish
to believe in the past. All
that deserved to live
became a solitary drop of rain.

Even a stranger called sorrow
took mercy on happiness.

In shadowed vale where sorrow's roots entwine,  
A young man wanders, heart bereft of light.  
The world, once vivid, draped in hues of joy,  
Now cloaks itself in gray, unyielding mist.  
Her name, a whisper on his trembling lips,  
Escapes like breath to skies that will not hear.  
Each step he takes, the earth seems cold, withdrawn,  
As if it mourns the warmth she took away.  

Her laughter, once a melody that danced  
Through mornings bright with promise, now is still—  
A silence louder than the tempest's roar.  
He sees her in the willow’s drooping grace,  
In starlight’s gleam, in rivers’ ceaseless flow,  
Yet none return the gaze he longs to meet.  
His hands, once held by hers in tender clasp,  
Now clutch the air, embracing only loss.  

The days stretch long, their hours carved in pain,  
Each moment etched with memories that sting.  
He questions why the heavens chose to rend  
His soul from hers, to sever love’s sweet chord.  
No answer comes; the silence is his judge,  
Condemning him to wander, incomplete.  
His heart, a vessel cracked, spills endless grief,  
Its contents pooling in the dark of night.  

Despair, a shadow, clings to every thought,  
Its weight a chain that binds him to the ground.  
He dreams of her, yet wakes to barren truth—  
The bed is cold, her pillow holds no trace.  
The world moves on, its rhythm harsh, unyielding,  
While he, a ghost, drifts through its careless tide.  
What purpose lingers in a life half-gone?  
What dawn could break to heal a wound so deep?  

Yet still he breathes, though every breath is pain,  
A testament to love that will not fade.  
Her absence carves a hollow in his soul,  
But in that void, her memory resides.  
He carries her, a burden and a gift,  
Through endless days, through nights that never end.  
And though despair may claim his fleeting hours,  
Her name, her love, remains his guiding star.

In shadows cast by fleeting mortal days,  
A young man lingers, heart with terror bound.  
His eyes, wide pools of dread, survey the world,  
Where every breath seems borrowed, every step  
A march toward the void that waits for all.  
Death haunts his thoughts, a specter cold and vast,  
Its silent jaws unyielding, ever near.  
He trembles at the thought of life's last spark,  
Of fading into nothing, lost to time,  
His name, his dreams, dissolved in endless dark.  

"Why must we die?" he cries to starlit skies,  
His voice a fragile thread in night's embrace.  
The heavens offer naught but silent gleam,  
Their ancient fires indifferent to his plea.  
He wanders through the streets, past faces worn,  
Each one a mirror of his own frail fate.  
The old, the sick, the joyous—all must fall.  
No wealth, no wit, no fervor can forestall  
The hand that claims the breath of rich and poor.  
He rails against this truth, his soul in strife.  

Yet in his fear, a question stirs within:  
What makes a life? What kindles heart and mind?  
He ponders spring, where buds burst forth in green,  
Their fleeting bloom a blaze of vibrant hue.  
The rose that wilts gives way to newer growth,  
Its petals strewn to nourish earth’s next dawn.  
He sees the river carve its winding path,  
Its waters ever-changing, yet the same,  
Each wave supplanted, yet the stream endures.  
Is life not born of limits, shaped by ends?  

If death were banished, would the heart still beat  
With urgent fire, with longing’s fierce desire?  
Would love still burn, if time could never fade?  
Would courage rise, if loss could not be known?  
He sees it now: the cradle holds the grave.  
The pulse of life is tethered to its close.  
Without the shadow, light would lose its glow;  
Without the end, beginnings could not be.  
Eternity would choke the fleeting now,  
And rob the soul of meaning’s fragile spark.  

He stands beneath the stars, no longer cowed.  
Though fear still lingers, softer now, subdued,  
He finds a quiet peace in life’s brief span.  
To live is to embrace the end’s approach,  
To dance within the circle of the years,  
Each moment sweeter for its swift farewell.  
The young man breathes, his heart no longer chained,  
And steps into the world, alive, afraid,  
Yet whole—his fear a thread within the weave  
Of life, where death and being intertwine.