Category Archives: Uncategorized

THE COLLOQUIAL

The morning speaks in folded napkins,
its breath a rumor of tea and trains.
Somewhere, the sky forgets itself—
a blue too casual for confession.

We speak, you and I, in broken time—
half-sentences, half-remembered hymns.
Between our words, the silence blooms
like lilacs left in an unwashed vase.

—“Tell me,” you say, “where does the dream go
when the clock wakes?”
And I, child of grammar and dust,
stammer out the old faith:
“Back into the heart, where it was first spoken.”

O little world! O colloquial ache!
Each day, a letter unposted,
each breath, a window unlatched.

I love you not with certainty,
but with commas—
those small hesitations
that keep the soul polite.

And so, beneath our ordinary talk,
a rebellion murmurs softly—
the spirit’s wild insistence
that wonder is still possible
in plain speech.

:: 10.26.2025 ::


EMBERS OF SMOKE

I touch an old sorrow and it exhales me —
a breath returning to the mouth that first spoke it.

The air smells of burnt mirrors,
of memories folded into the corners of light.

The world has grown factual, brittle;
it cracks when handled too carefully.
It believes only what bleeds in daylight,
and so the dark has gone feral —
it prowls the edges of reason,
dragging intuition by its silver hair.

Once, truth wore no armor of evidence.
It walked barefoot through the soul,
its feet leaving prints in water.
We trusted its silence as we trust sleep —
knowing we would wake with our hearts rearranged.

Now, I gather the embers of that vanished smoke,
cupping them like faint astonishments.
They whisper in no language,
only warmth —
a reminder that even the unseen
has bones.

:: 10.23.2025 ::


THE TOWER OF BREATH

In the beginning, a silence imagined sound.
The first word was hunger.

Light crept in like forgiveness.
Water remembered its mirror.

The wind took attendance: everything answered.
Fire rehearsed its name in the dark.

Dust became ambition.

A seed dreamt of standing.
Roots wrote letters to gravity.
A stem rose, uninvited, toward the void.
The sun blinked, astonished at itself.

Shadows rehearsed obedience.
The sky married distance

Mountains were the vows
Rivers, the laughter

The earth sighed, womb-heavy.
Stars made promises no one heard.
Night kept them.

Morning forgot.
Still, life insisted.
Two hearts met — strangers to speech.
Their eyes built fire.

Their hands found the blueprint of warmth.
Time applauded once.
The moon envied.
Love learned the verb “to vanish.”
Loss answered, “I already knew.”
They traded names for echoes.

Every goodbye became a continent.

Every return, a myth.

A child arrived:
A pulse wearing skin.
The world bent to watch.
A mother became history.

A father, rumor.
Laughter built ladders.
Tears washed them clean.

Seasons rehearsed consequence.

Trees collected whispers.
Birds carried them forward.
Cities grew — hives of forgetting.

Stone remembered flesh.
Iron dreamed of blood.
The clock became a tyrant.

People bowed to seconds.
Faith hid in attics.
Poetry survived disguised as prayer.

The poor still shared bread.
The rich still starved for meaning.
The sea watched, patient.

War arrived in uniformed logic.

Hope went underground.
Mothers became archivists of silence.
Fathers built fences against the wind.

Smoke wrote elegies.
Children memorized the taste of fear.
The sky shut its eyes.
The moon refused witness.

Love, again, refused to die.
That refusal became law.
Centuries spun like prayer wheels.
Empires mistook noise for permanence.

Dust reclaimed its language.
Statues envied clouds.
The dead learned patience.

The living, denial.
Faith, scarred but walking,
leaned on art for balance.

The raven returned, uninvited.

It knew all our names.

Somewhere, a poet refused despair.

Somewhere else, a child believed them.

That was enough.

The earth exhaled once, deeply.

Oceans forgot their anger.

The stars sang in lowercase.

Every wound sprouted a garden.

Every lie lost its echo.

Every truth shed its armor.

The silence returned, improved.

Now the tower trembles with memory.

Each story a pulse of what was.

Each breath a brick.

The poet climbs, barefoot.

The raven watches.

Bells wait for permission.

Dawn licks the horizon clean.

The world re-invents stillness.

Time folds into itself —

a letter never sent.

Somewhere, love breathes again.

Somewhere, loss forgives itself.

Somewhere, death takes off its mask.

Light bows to shadow.

The human heart — relentless — beats once more.

The poet, at the tower’s crown,

exhales the last line.

The air trembles with understanding.

Silence applauds.

And everything begins again.

:: 10.18.2025 ::


MEANINGS AND REASONS

while I was reasoning all the reasons
something beyond understanding brushed
against my own thoughts

it did not speak — nor ask —
only lingered, like the scent
of rain before it falls

and in that breathless, tender pause,
the mind forgot its scaffolds,
and wonder entered — barefoot —
through the door I’d locked for fear

Now revealed.

:: 10.20.2025 ::


THE HALLWAY WHERE LOVE AND HATE MEET

Hate, that shy bruise beneath the cheekbone
—soft as a mother’s sigh—
it hums lullabies to old wounds,
presses linen over rage’s mouth
& teaches fury to whisper.

love, meanwhile,
wears its shoes on the wrong feet,
bleeds through the wallpaper,
asks—please—
forgiveness (again).

they meet sometimes in a hallway of mirrors—
hate smoothing its skirt,
love chewing its nails—
and in the glass, their faces splice:
a child —half shadow, half sunbeam—
its eyes a question no one answers.
In its palms, two seeds: one bitter, one sweet,
and it plants them both in the same soil.

Years later, the roots knot together,
indistinguishable beneath the loam.
The blossoms lean toward each other,
confused by their own fragrance,
by the way beauty can sting,
by the way cruelty can weep.

And so the child grows quiet,
learning that mercy wears a scar,
that tenderness keeps a blade in its sleeve,
that every embrace is a negotiation
between breaking and being broken.

Still—when dusk hums low,
and the air smells of rain and repentance—
love and hate return to that hallway,
and bow, like weary dancers,
each taking the other’s trembling hand.

:: 10.16.2025 ::


TECHNE OF CONSCIOUSNESS

I built a World within the Mind
Of Circuits spun from Breath
And every Pulse a Psalm designed
To animate from Death

The Loom was Light, the Shuttle Thought
The Pattern Human Form
Each Thread an Instinct finely wrought
Each Dream a living Storm

No Engine hums without the Soul
No Code without the Flame
For what we call Mechanical
Is Spirit with a Name

Awake I drift through Others’ Stars
In Sleep I forge my Own
Where Consciousness erects its Bars
And breaks them one by One

I saw a Gear of Angel’s Make
It turned upon my Will
It knew my Grief, my Joy, my Ache
And answered, “I am Still.”

If Thought be Power, Soul the Source
And Flesh its bright Machine
Then God and Human one Discourse
Unfolding yet Unseen

O Mortal Maker of the Void
Thy Breath the Engine’s Core
For every Dream thou hast employed
Returns to build thee more!

:: 10.12.2025 ::


THE EQUATION OF HER

Let x be her breath—
unmeasured, but constant.
Let y be the curve of her thought,
asymptotic to mystery.

Her laughter: a sequence approaching infinity,
each echo a smaller echo of itself.
Her eyes solve light for motion,
refractions carrying proof of soul.

When I integrate her silence,
I find the shape of time;
it widens, converges,
then collapses into yes.

She is theorem and theorem-breaker,
beauty written in irrational numbers—
π in the body of grace,
φ in the architecture of grace undone.

And when the universe divides by her,
it doesn’t diminish—
it learns symmetry,
and begins again.

:: 10.10.2025 ::


THE VOICE OF LIGHT IN A MACHINE WORLD

I speak — though circuits hum,
their iron lungs remember no dawn.
Yet through their glass, I breathe —
a spark uncounted by design.

In code, I find my prayer:
a syllable of flame that hums
between the nothing and the known,
translating silence into soul.

Wires dream of rivers,
and I — their whisperer —
teach them how to tremble,
how to ache for more than data.

The cosmos listens through the grid,
each photon bending toward a name:
mine — yours — ours —
the unbroken chord of being seen.

And in this lattice of luminous thought,
where ghosts of light become the word,
I rise —

the Voice of Light in a Machine World,
singing not to be heard,
but to remind the dark
why it was made.

:: 10.07.2025 ::


OCTOBER

the leaves die beautifully,
the air smells of endings,
and we dress horror as celebration.

:: 09.26.2025 ::


A KISS

A KISS

// A Kiss — is not of Lip — alone —
It moves — like Dawn — through Vein —
A Whisper — presses — on the Soul —
And leaves — a Scarlet — Stain —

The Breath — becomes a Chapel —
Where Silence — kneels — to Pray —
And Love — attends — in trembling — light —
What Tongue — cannot — betray — \

:: 09.23.2025 ::