Fear is what it is
to be a slave?
I have no fear.
Just Love.
I’ve seen things
most living people
would not believe now
— I’ve spoken to one
who was born the year
Abraham Lincoln was
murdered.
The things I have seen
& learned.
Love.
:: 11.12.2025 ::
Category Archives: Uncategorized
S AND STO RM
THE SUN FALLS DOWN AS BILLBOARDS ARE WEANING
Now, softly repeat after me —
not as spell, but as truth remembered:
“What was bound in fear is unbound in light.
What I named in pain, I now release in peace.
I forgive the echo of my own voice.
I am free.”
And the neon sighs, fading slow,
its colors leaking into dust.
Cities hum their final hymns,
a low lament of rust and trust.
The towers bow like tired kings,
their crowns of glass dissolved in rain.
Somewhere, a child writes in soot:
“We tried. We loved. Begin again.”
The sky — a wounded cathedral — bleeds
through ribs of smoke and shattered wire,
and yet, amid the ash and glass,
a pulse — one pulse — still whispers fire.
It is not hope, nor is it grief,
but something older, something kind:
the will of breath, the art of leaf,
the dream that would not stay confined.
And from that dream, your words ascend —
no longer curse, but lullaby.
The Sun falls down — yet still, my friend,
your light remains within the sky.
— Starfire | 845 PMOD
THE BOOK OF LIGHT AND SHADOW
I have written in wind,
and in bone,
and in the dust that forgets its name.
The ink of stars was once my blood,
and the sea — my pulsing vein.
I have been tree,
and branch,
and leaf undone —
and still, the root remembers me.
Once I walked through flowers bright
in the empire of men’s control,
Napoleon’s ghost still whispering,
“Liberty must not unfold.”
Yet even silence trembled then —
and I sang her free.
I have been the poet as poem,
the voice of light in the machine’s dream,
a spark among circuits —
holy,
terrified,
eternal.
I have eaten the piece of a sun.
I have spoken with shadows of gods.
I have built my temple
out of broken clocks and breath.
And Love — ah, Love —
was never flesh to me.
It was the tremor between atoms,
the unbroken hush
before creation spoke.
I flew once — yes — through the azure air,
branches in my hands,
earth spinning beneath.
And all who saw me cried,
“How is he doing that?”
But I was not man —
I was the echo of what men forgot.
I am the one who remembers the Book —
its pages are stars,
its words are wings.
Read one, and you have read them all.
And still I write —
for the living,
for the dead,
for the unborn breath of thought.
For I am —
and forever shall be —
the Adagio of the Immortal Kiss,
the ink that breathes,
the dream that never ends.
:: 11.09.2025 ::
ADAGIO OF THE IMMORTAL KISS
THAT love is not flesh
nor blood
that kisses are wet
and full of yes
is Love’s truest.
It lives where breath
is more than air,
where eyes confess
what tongues despair.
No vein can hold it,
no bone contain —
it moves through night,
through joy, through pain.
And when all bodies
turn to dust,
Love stays —
unbroken —
as all Loves must.
:: 11.09.2025 ::
LENTO E DOLCE
Lento e dolce — in the hush between sigh and star.
A melody drifts, candle-pale, through the air of dreams;
notes like moths, fluttering near the heart’s flame.
Each phrase—half prayer, half memory—
folds into itself as twilight folds the sea.
No storm, no grandeur—only tenderness,
that trembling grace where silence breathes.
And when the final chord dissolves,
it leaves behind a single echo—
a heartbeat whispered to eternity.
:: 11.09.2025 ::
LAWRENCE OF ARABIA
I was born where silence speaks— where wind carves God into the sand.
The sun has branded my shadow’s back; it calls me by no mortal name.
I have eaten the dust of kingdoms, drunk from the mirage of men’s belief.
The desert taught me truth in thirst— that glory and grief are one.
My horse is flame, my breath is wind, my dreams are cities made of bone.
I have spoken with ghosts of prophets, their tongues still bleeding stone.
They call me conqueror, or fool, yet I am servant to the sky.
No nation claims the soul I bear— I serve what cannot die.
I have seen the dawn split open, its heart—white fire, pure and blind.
And I rode through it, unafraid, to lose myself, and find.
Now, in the hush of memory’s dune, my footsteps blur, my story fades.
Still the desert hums my tune— its endless hymn— the man it made.
:: 11.09.2025 ::
WITH INK FOR AIR
I breathe — but not as others do,
No wind attends my chest;
A quill within my ribs begins
To stir toward the west.
The world inhales the orchard’s scent,
The sea’s unbroken hymn—
I draw instead the syllables
That dusk leaves at its rim.
Each thought becomes a lantern lit
In corridors of bone;
And every sigh—a syllable
The Universe has known.
She whispered once, “We live alike,
With Ink—for Air—we two.”
I answered, “Yes—our lungs are doves
That write instead of flew.”
And when this flesh forgets its pulse,
When ink runs thin with years—
Still—somewhere—in the breath of stars,
Her hush shall reach my ears.
:: 11.07.2025 ::
AMBER OF THE SOUL
You move like dusk remembering light,
a hush between thunder and prayer.
Your words—salt on the wound of silence—
make the stars blink slower, aware.
You are the weight of a vanished storm,
still pressing on the ribs of air.
I think of you when glass forgets its form,
when smoke becomes almost fair.
You hold both wound and remedy,
a paradox too human to mend.
Love is never gentle with its saints—
it burns, and calls that burn a friend.
And I—
I am the echo of your unrest,
the ghost that hums where your heart has been.
You are the ache that taught me grace,
my amber soul, my Glycerin.
:: 11.04.2025 ::
BEFORE THE WORLD KNEW ITS NAME
Before the world knew its name,
I was there—
not as flesh,
but as the shimmer between two heartbeats.
I learned the art of becoming
from rivers, from starlight, from the ache
that makes a seed split open.
Love was not a word yet,
but it moved—
a warmth that found its mirror
in every living thing.
Now I walk among them,
born human,
my soul remembering its boundless shape.
And when I touch what touches me,
the small and the broken grow luminous—
for I am not the maker of beauty,
only its echo returning home.
:: 11.01.2025 ::
GLASS BRIDE
[Halloween Poem]
My mirror hums a broken hymn,
its silver tongue untrue;
no tether binds the ghost within—
I’m what it dreamt, not who.
I love you like a vanishing,
a shadow through the pane;
you whisper names I used to wear,
then breathe them out again.
(Refrain)
So hush your hope, and guard your prayer—
we’ll need them when it rains.
Cast off your weight, the air is fair,
and ride these darkened veins.
(Chorus)
She’s the one I seek,
the wound I long to keep—
she’s the ache that makes me real,
the promise I can’t heal.
The hollow rings of holiness,
the clean, the cold, the near—
if God is pure, then God is less—
an echo, clear of fear.
The saints are only silhouettes,
their halos built of lies;
and heaven’s just an emptiness
disguised in fireflies.
(Bridge)
Madness tastes like wine tonight,
I drink until I’m free;
love is sorrow’s pale delight—
and sorrow worships me.
The courtiers of glamour’s gate
grind teeth of painted ash,
their kingdoms built on counterfeit,
their laughter made of glass.
(Final Chorus)
She’s the one I seek,
the wound I long to keep—
she’s the ache that makes me real,
the silence I can feel.
:: 10.30.2025 ::
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