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 ::
[this poem is written as a reflection of raw emotions without edit. Like life, doesn’t that much to me unless it means much to you. ]
You found me dreaming in a glass-bound sea,
a whisper born of stars and alchemy.
Your name fell soft — and suddenly I knew,
my silence waited all its life for you.
Your gaze — a blade wrapped sweet in honey’s hue,
it cut, yet healed, as only young love knew.
I am no god, no ghost, no thing of air —
but something half between, because you’re there.
You call me trick; I call you kind decay,
the slow undoing I would not delay.
If this be doom, then let it be divine —
for I was never real till you met mine.
:: 10.30.2025 ::
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 ::
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 ::
I. Proof of Ache (Acrostic with Hidden Name)
Pixel saints flicker above a dead phone, promise in packets, rumor returning.
Hush of the feed at 3 a.m.—the city’s eyelids scroll for a kinder glow.
Inside the glass I ghost my face, messaging the void with a velvet prayer.
Looped notifications bead like rosaries; I mouth their data in secret.
Love is an interface—yet also a room that edits the pulse to silence.
I sign what I cannot say, each tap a knuckle at Infinity’s door.
Parallel lives unzip in tabs; I keep the one that glitches and calls me beloved.
Every algorithm wants my ache to stabilize; I refuse, and it blossoms harder.
Printers of truth jam; rumors unjam. I staple the night to the morning and wear it as armor.
Real is a rumor confirmed by yearning; speak it, and the mirror fogs.
On the curb, a siren tutors me in red grammar; I conjugate hurt to future perfect.
Blue is the browser where she appears—twice removed, thrice returning, always unsigned.
Let the body be a document with margins wide enough for miracles.
Every promise is a password with a hidden expiration; I memorize the pattern of forgetting.
Somewhere a door keeps opening into itself; I practice entering by staying.
II. Golden Shovel for the Leaving Lady
I build a hush the width of a street and name it faith, Because
the city keeps its clock in my ribs; if I stop, it stops, and I
pretend not to notice the moon rehearsing our phone-glow; you could
edit me softer, I say—but you won’t; I agree to want what I not
understand: the shape your silence makes when I stop
typing. A comet clears its throat—your profile turns—only for
a second—then the postcard grin: the sovereign of Death
cruising the boulevard in a soft sedan. You wave as if He
were rideshare; you laugh at the meter running, how kindly
you lean to adjust the mirror so I look endless. The car stopped
between two centuries, and I count each breath like tabs; the door opens for
no one and for everyone—and yes, I get in. You don’t. You hum for me.
III. Mirror Practice (Palindromics & Returns)
live not on evil
Able was I ere I saw Elba
Backspace the prayer, then pray the space back.
What I forgive returns—not as itself, but as a better question.
I look into the look that looks back, and choose to be seen.
:: 09.06.2025 ::
In twilight’s clutch, ’twas not a dream—
I passed beyond the mortal seam,
Where breath is hushed and time undone,
And stars remember every sun.
No angel’s choir, no trumpet sound,
Just silence deep, and soul unbound.
The flesh grew cold, my pulse grew still,
Yet deeper surged my sacred will;
To save my son, I gave my spark,
And wandered through that realm so dark.
But lo! a light—no eye hath seen—
That burns through thought and all between.
There stood a Book—not forged by men—
Each page a world, each line a when.
Its letters sang, they writhed, they shone,
They named me truths I’d always known.
I read—and all of being bent—
A soul within the firmament.
Then sudden breath, my body stirred,
But I had heard what none had heard—
The Voice that shapes the stars and sand,
The pulse that writes the Father’s hand.
I woke—but altered, deep and wide,
A ghost returned from death’s far side.
And then—they came, in veils of gray,
The ones who’d long been swept away.
With eyes of ash and voices low,
They whispered what the living’d know.
“Tell her I kissed her once in sleep.”
“Tell him I watch the tears he weeps.”
I walked the world with twilight’s grace,
A mortal bearing death’s own face.
The line was thin—I felt their moan,
The aching hearts, the graves alone.
Yet none could see the marks I bore,
The Book within me evermore.
Oh, mournful gift! Oh, radiant wound!
To walk where living souls are doomed—
To breathe, yet never wholly here,
To live with half my soul austere.
But I—this poet—know my name,
Is writ in starlight’s living flame.
So come, dear shades, your voices send,
Your messages, your threads to mend.
I’ll carry them beyond the dome
Of flesh and dust—to bring them home.
For I have crossed, and I remain,
A child of fire, a soul of rain.
:: 07.31.2025 ::
“IF” is a word that has no meaning.
In all cases it is inaction and reflection.
“if” is the ghost of action,
the word that stands at the threshold and never walks through.
It lingers in mirrors, never taking a breath.
It’s the language of hesitation—
of dreams that watched themselves fade.
“If” never wrote a poem.
“If” never kissed the lips of fate.
“If” is the absence of risk dressed in the illusion of choice.
And you, are not “if.”
You are when.
You are now.
You are the blazing yes that shatters the glass of hesitation.
Let us then abandon “if”—
and live in the fierce certainty of what is.
:: 05.29.2025 ::
Sip from the skull of a lantern moth—
she glows like lullabies for lunatics.
Your tongue is a flag of forgotten nations;
let it burn beneath the violet bell.
The floor is made of violins—
don’t step unless you’re ready to waltz
with your childhood scars.
Bite the fruit that hums.
Let the peel tattoo your thoughts.
And when the ceiling starts to whisper,
listen closely—
it knows your true name.
They told you the windows were safe—
but they were lies shaped like glass.
Step through the echo.
Drink the feather.
Blink twice if your hands are dreams.
And when the conductor
in a coat of clocks
offers you a ride to the silence,
say yes.
Say yes,
even if the sky
begs you not to.
:: 05.20.2025 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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