He walked down Seventh Avenue
in a suit the color of storm-light,
Armani stitching holding together
what the world once nailed apart.

No halo—
only the low ember of a man
who has watched every century
try to erase him.

People stared
the way sheep stare at thunder,
uncertain whether to scatter
or kneel.

He did not speak.
He did not lift a hand
to bless or curse or gather.
He only walked—
sandals traded for leather,
robe traded for silk,
the same heart beating beneath.

As he passed
the glass cathedrals of want,
mannequins bowed
in their frozen hunger,
mirrors shivered,
recognizing their own reflection
in his quiet contempt.

A woman selling roses
felt her breath snag
on an old wound.
She offered one,
thorned and trembling.
He took it
the way only the ancient take anything—
with sorrow enough
to swallow empires
and mercy enough
to refuse the feast.
Some said model.
Some said ghost.
Some said madman
too expensive to ignore.

But the air bent around him
like light around a wound,
and the city—
dressed in its bright, glittering sins—
did what cities do:
it looked,
it lingered,
it forgot.
No sermon.
No miracle.

Just a man in Armani asking, without asking,
“Have you learned nothing?”

:: 12.11.2025 ::

SOMETIMES, shadows walk like people
and talk senseless things—
sometimes geometry is just chance,
and broken numbers need to dance,
and Jack of Diamonds sheds the Queen of Hearts,
and her eyes are the swords of conflict,
the shape of your heart → broken love.

If I told you that I loved her—
you’d think something wrong;
just a man wearing many faces.
If I told you I loved you—
I met a woman with love hid in many places.
I know the space, the size of a soldier,
and the clubs of cards—
  → it’s not the shadow I walk.

Yet still the dusk leans in, listening,
as though it knows the truth of men:
that every borrowed face we wear
is stitched from longing’s ancient thread.

And sometimes dreams outrun their keepers,
seeking forms they cannot fill;
and sometimes hearts, like worn-out decks,
shuffle themselves against their will.

But here I stand—no mask, no mirror—
beneath the quiet, faithful moon,
confessing to the old night sky
that love, once loosed, returns too soon.

And if my steps seem split in two,
one toward her, one toward you—
know this: the heart, bewildered, still
chooses the path that feels most true.

For even when shadows walk like people,
and numbers break, and queens depart—
somewhere a single, steady flame
remembers the shape
 of your
    heart.

:: 11.16.2025 ::