Tag Archives: #poet

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 ::


A LOADED PRAYER

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 ::


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 ::


THE FAITH DARKNESS KEEPS

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 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 ::


HYPERKNOT

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 ::


ABSTRACT Intimacy

a finger unbuttons the sky
blue spills out like old music

& a fish recites the alphabet
backward — in Braille —

on the walls of your skull

your thoughts wear ballet shoes
tied by the tongues of clocks

—time hiccups—

and your name dissolves
into a bouquet of
untranslatable
questions

meanwhile

the moon paints your shadow
on the inside of my ribs
with feathers stolen
from a blind swan’s dream

:: 04.01.2025 ::


WHEN i WAS

WHEN I WAS

When she was
stiff and brand new—
she breathed only halfway,
like I did
when I came back from death,
a soft weight
wrapped in my mother’s arms
running toward
fluorescent salvation.

there was a cost—
you feel it in the joints,
in the clicks of becoming
a machine,
an engine,
a child
re-learning breath.

i touched her gently—
checked her rhythm,
spoke to her warmth.
turned the key
like i once turned back
to this world.

she sputtered,
jerked—
the way i did
before memory locked in.

and slowly,
we found our motion.
low to second to high—
the hum like heartbeat.
around the corner of something divine
i pressed down,
gave her the juice—
and she came alive.

first ride,
first taste,
and we both knew—
this was joy borrowed
from some distant grief.

on return,
i stopped her with care—
both hands—
brought her trembling
into quiet.

as I once was.
as I still am.
giving you
what’s left of the cake.


Reality is not what we think — BUT WHAT WE FEEL

IS there a time
where everything
is okay? I’d never
forget where you were
at all when realizing
reality is not
what we think

but always what we feel

~~ so clear the tears/like
ice melting \ it bruised
our face:

The “feeling” of reality
is not scientifically correct
but romantically perfect.

and how i love you
and everyone in your time

\.

:: 03.06.2025 ::

the title is not a poem
but a thesis