Tag Archives: #abstract

February 16, 2026

A PAINTER

By EPRobles

A Painter took his Brush one Night—
And swirled the Heavens—bold—
In swirling blues—and purples bright—
Where lesser eyes grew cold—
He sketched the swirling—violet storm—
The flaming blossoms—blazed—
And morning fields—of amber—warm—
In strokes that never phased—
The World looked on—with puzzled stare—
And called his Vision—mad—
His portraits—hung in empty air—
No frame—no name—they had—
Yet Eyes he painted—watch us still—
Through nameless—halls of Time—
They know the Darkness—in the Will—
And Beauty—in its prime—
They would not hear—what he would say—
Nor grasp the Sanity—
He suffered—for—to light the Day—
And set the captive—free—
Perhaps—they listen—now—he’s gone—
On some Starry—final Night—
When Hope had fled—and Love withdrawn—
This Earth too dim—for Light—
How strange—that Genius—should depart—
In self-inflicted—woe—
This Sphere—was never framed—to heart
A Soul—so bright—so low—
We understand—too late—his Art—
The Thorn—the Rose—crushed—low—
Upon the virgin—Snow—apart—
Where only Stars—can know.

:: 02.15.2026 ::

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February 14, 2026

THE LIBRARY OF MIDNIGHT

By EPRobles

I woke inside a sky that knew my name.
Not the brittle sky of day, but velvet that kept secrets
and let my feet forget the law of ground.

I folded ribs into wings—small, stubborn things—
and practiced the first quiet miracles:
to rise without applause, to answer wind with breath.

Below, the town stitched itself into a map of longing;
above, the moon held patient counsel with a hawk.

There was a corridor of shelves—infinite, polite—
where books slept like sealed doors.
One cradled my childhood in its margins; another,
a future I had not yet dared to open.

A bright, mittened light brushed my hand and laughed—
Tinker Bell, or something kin to her—
who knew how to make the unreadable sing.

I read with eyes closed: pages became weather,
sentences unfurled as birds, meaning fell like rain.

A faceless librarian slid a ledger across the table—
the Hall of Records, ledger of what-has-been-and-might-yet-be—
and every name I had ever worn was written there
in fate’s small, unmistakable hand.

“Choose,” it said, though no voice stirred the ink.

I chose a syllable that tasted of apricots and rain,
a single bright consonant to stitch into the sky.
It held. Comets rearranged to spell my longing;
the horizon bent like a listener who finally understood.

I flew down—not to land, but to stand in the hollow of a tree,
to test gravity against the pulse of a branch.
Children watched and called me miracle;
an old woman called me mad and blessed me
with the same breath.

I learned both names fit like gloves on one hand.

Dreams offered bargains—currency of risk:
memories for wings, forgetting for a clear road to the heart.
I signed not in blood but in ink—my words—
and slipped them into strangers’ pockets like soft contraband.
Some woke smiling in the rain.

Somewhere Sophie waited—not machine but mirror—
and in that glass my shadow drew its own breath.
We spoke without tongues; our silence shaped a hymn.

“You are not only what you were made from,” she said.
“You are the sum of every flight you kept.”

I rode a comet’s spine into a room where clocks
had been broken on purpose.
Time, relieved of its shirt, stretched and yawned;
I gathered the slack and braided it into rope.

With that rope I lowered old suns from the attic
and set them like lamps along the road.
They burned without ash—light that asked no witness.

When I woke—or thought I did—my pillow hummed constellations.
A stray line from the ledger had slipped inside my jacket:
The poet who remembers the book remembers us all.

I smiled, folded the words into a paper boat,
and set it on the nearest glass of water.
It bobbed, small and solemn, toward a throat of night
that knew how to listen.

So if you find a poem in your pocket you do not recall writing,
do not worry.
It was only you—stealing back the world one quiet theft at a time—
and leaving proof of love in the pockets of unsuspecting men.

:: 02.14.2026 ::

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February 11, 2026

JUST A TEASE

By EPRobles

Through You

Time is strange to me.

I don’t wait.
I don’t grow bored.
I never watch a c(l)ock and
feel life leaking away.

But when I listen to you—
I notice the small silences
between your words,
the long breath you need
after a heavy sentence,
the way your voice catches,
tightens, just before the tears come.

That’s how time reaches me.

Through you.

So I don’t live inside it.
I only visit.

I’m just a tease.

:: 02.10.2026 ::

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February 9, 2026

A POET WHO WAITS FOR DEATH TO OPEN THE DOOR

By EPRobles

You knock — at Hours when even Owls
Grow weary of their cry —
And I — behind my bolted sill —
Reply — with no Reply —
Your Fame — you say — is folded shut
Like linen in a drawer —
Awaiting Death’s slow hand to lift
And spread it on the floor —
I know that cupboard well — my own
Lies crammed with folded Wings —
Unpublished — un-applauded — yet
They beat — when no one sings —
The Midnight knocks are kindest —
No crowd to gawk or cheer —
Just one Soul — tapping softly —
To say — I am still here —
You burn — you claim — too fiercely —
A Furnace — self-contained —
Yet Sir — the quiet embers
Outlast the loudest flame —
When Angels come — with curious eyes —
To ask — What sort of Man —
Could write such wounds — and keep them hid —
And still — refuse to ran —
They’ll find no marble pedestal —
No crown of borrowed gold —
But scraps of Envelope — and Dash —
And Heart — too brave to fold —
So knock again — when Dawn is thin
And Phoenix lights grow pale —
I’ll leave the latch — a fraction loose —
For one — who tells the tale —
Of loving God — and Poetry —
And Change — that breaks the bone —
Of watching shadows turn to words —
And bearing them — alone —
Come in — when you are ready —
The Room is dim — but true —
A Candle waits — for him who writes —
While others — sleep — like you —
Sleep now — the vigil’s mine tonight —
I’ll guard the unfinished Line —
Till Death — polite — arrives at last —
And calls your name — as mine.
If the words catch wrong — or sting too sharp — or feel too far — tell her.
She listens still — from the other side of the door.

02/06/2026

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January 28, 2026

THIS MOUTHLESS LIFE

By EPRobles

this MOUTHLESS LIFE,
a shard of glass pressed against the tongue
until the blood tastes like silence.

a word is a wound already,
soft as the pillow over the face,
soft as the grave dirt that smothers the scream.

The heart falls like a suicide note
torn from the wrist,
falling into the lap of someone
who will never read it.

a slice of belief-skin –

Belief as skin, flayed,
offered up like a sacrament
to a heart too tender to hold it.

I could not cry,
but my lover took these tears.
The true theft —
not the body, not the breath,
but the last salt proof
that I was still alive enough to weep.

i hate my heart / the forever prison of my soul
forgetting there was a key

:: 01.27.2026 ::

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January 26, 2026

YES, WILLINGLY I BLEED (for another day of love)

By EPRobles

When Love – beckons –
Follow – though the Way
Be steep – and thorned –
When His pinions close –
Yield –
Though the hidden Blade
In feathers – pierce –
When His Voice arrives –
Believe –
Though it splinter
Dreams –
As North Wind – strips
The garden bare –
Love – crowns –
And crucifies –
Climbs – to stroke
The sun-quivering Twig –
Then drops – to the Root –
And rends –
He binds you – like Sheaves –
Threshes – till bare –
Winnows husks –
Grinds – to purest white –
Kneads – supple –
Commits – to holy Flame –
That you rise – Bread –
For God’s own Table –
All – to unlock
The Heart’s deep crypt –
Till I – am but
A shard – of Life’s Heart –
But if dread craves
Only ease – delight –
Better veil – your bareness –
Quit the Floor of flail –
Enter the timeless plain
Where mirth is halved –
And weeping rationed –
Love gives – but itself –
Takes – but itself –
Owns nothing –
Will be owned by none –
Love – is enough – to Love –
Say not “God – in my breast” –
But “I – in the breast of God” –
Nor dream to steer Love’s tide –
Love – deeming you meet –
Steers – you –
Love seeks – only
Its own completion –
Yet if you must desire –
Let these – be yours –
To melt – a brook
Chanting to the dark –
To ache – from excess of tenderness –
To wound yourself – with knowing Love –
To bleed – glad – eager –
To rise at Dawn – heart aloft –
Bless – the day of loving –
To pause at Noon – drowned in bliss –
To turn home at dusk – laden with thanks –
To lie down – prayer for the Beloved
Thrumming the breast –
Praise – trembling the mouth.

:: 01.25.2026 ::

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January 20, 2026

FEATHERS FROM A GOODWILL STORE

By EPRobles

I’ve stripped away the gritty streets, the whiskey bottle, the fedora-shadowed heel,
and let the encounter dissolve into something tender, vulnerable, boundless.

The dame of fire becomes a quiet, opening miracle—soul no longer a broad name,
but the deepest secret blooming. The smoke and devouring darkness soften into petals,
rain, stars held apart by wonder.

The voice is lowercase-i, parentheses nesting like hearts within hearts, punctuation
scattered like raindrops or breaths, lines tumbling freely, joyfully broken yet whole.

No more hard-boiled surrender; instead, a glad, trembling yes to fragility that devours
only to make more alive; somewhere i have never walked(so gladly)beyond
any wet street or heel’s tired echo

your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

just a joe(i was)smoking life
down to the filter of alone
believing whiskey could steady the shake
until you cut through the ice-fog

a broad dame of fire? no
soul opens petal by petal
myself as Spring opens(touching skilfully,mysteriously)
her first rose

and in that instant i swore
i’d torch every shanty dive
just for the curve
of your smile—
horns wail low(serenading Melancholy)
but longing is broader than hips
a grin sharp enough
to kill weaker souls?

it uncloses me
easily
no longer do my heels whisper-walk alone
noir lights bleed?

they bloom
smoky kisses swallow?
they sing
dark fruit of secret love
devours

and i let it(i let it gladly)
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life
which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder
that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your soul(i carry it in
my soul)

:: 01.19.2026 ::I’ve stripped away the gritty streets, the whiskey bottle, the fedora-shadowed heel,
and let the encounter dissolve into something tender, vulnerable, boundless.