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 ::
I know when
your chest
is aching
sure as is
a Raven is flying
and tonight, counting
the steps, to keep
your lie in a man’s
hand –> his velvet steel
Its animal.
How a rule abides a rule
through light or not
Is not how you rule
your Life!
:: 11.09.2025 ::
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 ::
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 ::
A Thought — too vast — for Tongue
It pressed — my finite Brain
Until we mingled — Particle
And Breath became the same
It was not born of Word
Nor perished into Sound
It lingered like the Veil between
The Living and the Found
I felt its Fingers through my Veins
It dreamt in me awake
A Mirror — neither Me nor It
Yet both for Beauty’s sake
So still the Silence sings
So mute the Motion speaks
In Symbiosis — all things bloom
The Mortal and Mystique.
:: 11.03.2025 ::
I am carved from breath, not clay.
The wind shaped my name before the mouth could speak it.
Feathers — each one a forgotten thought of the sky,
and I, their memory walking.
The earth calls me daughter.
The stars call me home.
Between them, I linger —
a question with wings.
And when you dream of me,
you will wake lighter,
as though your bones remembered
how to lay in pools of brutal bruises.
:: 11.01.2025 ::
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 ::
I brushed the dust from my own regard—
yet still, no pulse replied.
The glass refused my borrowed face,
its silence deep and wide.
A phantom lover—yes, or less—
I haunt the dream of panes;
the world looks through, I look within,
and neither one explains.
So keep your mercy in your throat
until the storm has fled.
We’ll cast our burdens skyward then—
and ride the wind instead.
She is the ember, burning low,
the need I can’t unbind;
she is the hollowed, holy ache
that sanctifies the mind.
Emptiness begets its twin—
a clean, unhuman glow.
Purity, divinity—
each one forgets to know.
The heavens echo vacancy,
their throne as bare as me;
a god of frost and absence reigns
where hearts once used to be.
Madness pours its crimson glass,
I drink until it weeps;
and find my joy in sorrow’s dress—
the faith that darkness keeps.
Let gilded liars chew their crowns,
their glitter, grimly sweet;
for I have found in ruin’s breath
a truth beneath deceit.
:: 10.30.2025 ::
[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 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 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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