it enters like a knife mistaken for a key,
unlocking parts of you that were safer sealed.

it does not knock.

but it breathes against the window pane,
fogging the glass and leaving condensation kisses.

you mistook that presence for something holy,
kneeling. praising. fully devoted.

it builds a fire in the depths of your soul,
a once warming flame has ignited much more.

with the burning ashes raining down,
you cannot drown the memories.

n.h.

Would that I wave my hand
and gift the blooming of
spring flowers to you.
Or pray at the altar of winter’s slow fire
to melt away this frozen heart.
But a flurry of whiteout feelings  
blind me from such a pompous display
of naive romanticism.
Yet love is blind and love blinds.
Love binds and love breaks.
If you’ve lost the trail, you are the trail.
No one said this journey would be easy.
Actually, I don’t remember anyone telling me anything about this journey.
Rubber wood for legs and pursed lips
at the sound of a secret
taunting my ensemble soul from the wings.
Space enough to relay a message.
Distance enough to lose it.
The gathering at this point is a drift of tumbleweeds and the only thing
to read on the signs is rust.
So I reach down and grab a handful of dirt,
put it in my mouth, and whistle dixie
past this graveyard of doubt.
Just in time to see the last elephant
becoming the horizon
and the sun setting through the fog of memory.
That star burns in our mother tonight,
the mystery growing in the womb
of tomorrow.
“Come,” she says,
“the dawn breaks…for you.”

Who resides in the large stately homes?
Are they average, are they beautiful?
Are they kind or are they cruel?
Are they both perhaps?
Does it matter?
Who calls the stately homes their own?
Have they longed for it all their lives?
Did they grow up on the outskirts of society,
always wanting for more?
Do they wake up each day and thank God?
What keeps them up when night comes to call?
What haunts them at three
when demons prey on their slumber?
Who is the stranger inside?

Cut the flesh upwards,
Bend your bone cot.
Be aware of everything,
Soul scissors don’t stop...
Our oceans stay so iron sweet,
And this will never change...
Our corrector eye lens cameras stay in range, far...
Our mystery.
Messy makeup burnt.
We’re not perfect but we are what we learn...
And this is where we start, from the pain beauty curves and carves a new art...

The end of certainty is not the end of the world,
but the dawn of a deeper vision.
We believed the earth was solid, the heavens unshaken,
the laws eternal and unmoving.
Yet beneath every stone lies movement,
within every silence—an echo of change.

Certainty was our shelter,
but also our prison.
It closed the doors of imagination,
it chained the infinite to the finite.
Now the walls have fallen.
We see the universe not as a machine,
but as a mystery—
a flowing river of becoming.

The end of certainty is the beginning of freedom.
To live without anchors,
to walk among paradoxes,
to welcome uncertainty as the companion of truth.
In the vast sky of unknowing,
we discover the stars of possibility.

Here begins our journey—
from the ruins of the absolute
to the open horizon of the infinite.

You observe a shadowy figure
Crouched on weathered planks
Staring into the depths
Of the ocean's vast embrace

The stars shine overhead
And a sliver of the moon
Reflects on crested waves

You watch the figure stand
Then take a haunting step
And vanish from the light

A view so picturesque
That most may never know
What remains
Beneath the surface

Perched on top a sandcastle,
A ghost who rules the night.
In armour pale as soft moonshine,
And brandished sword of might.

From his high keep, he clambers down —
The shore his dark domain.
He stalks the tide’s retreating edge,
For spoils soon to be slain.

The scent of brine and drifting ****
Rides on the midnight air;
Now darting forth to strike his prey,
Swift-footed, keen, aware.

With sharpened blade, he rends the flesh —
His kingdom’s tribute claimed.
And casts aside the rest to rot,
Now that his hunger’s tamed.

Then strikes his armour with his sword —
It rings along the shore,
A haunting drum designed to fright
Subjects still seeking war.

Assured now that his realm is safe,
Sword sheathed with grim command,
He scuttles back to his fortress,
Across the warming sand.

The eastern sky grows light with fire;
The moon begins to fade.
The surf now hums a softer hymn,
The stars slip into shade.

He yields his crown to morning’s glow,
And burrows in his keep,
Where muffled tides and cooling walls
Enfold their king in sleep.