Category Archives: Uncategorized

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 ::


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 ::