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 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.
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
LUDWIG
The Unheard Symphony
The Silence played so loud it broke
The air within the Room
A Fugue unwoven Measureless
A Chord of Soundless Doom
The Fingers of the Tempest stirred
The Notes refused to bow
Yet in the hush an Echo rang
Beyond the Mortal brow
The Violin was never struck
The Keys denied their plea
And yet a Symphony arose
Conducted wordlessly
A God unseen His Hands became
The Whisper in the Air
And in that Soundless Thundering
The Deaf Composer Heard.
:: 01.31.2025 ::
I climbed beneath their tempest guise,
Not cruel—but wondrous, wild—
Their tongues, like serpents, wove the skies,
And bade me be beguiled.
Their muses danced in frenzied streams,
A chaos, deep, divine—
I felt them tear my tethered dreams,
To fashion them as mine.
They stripped me to a vital beat,
No thought, no flesh remained—
But pulses rising, stark and fleet,
By holy torrents chained.
Her voice—a middle path untold—
Did whisper through my bone,
A force that breaks, yet gently molds,
And claims my craft her own.
No mercy in her artful fire,
Yet none would I beseech—
For every line she might inspire
Lies just beyond my reach.
O gods who sing and chaos bring,
Your wild winds are my home—
A vessel frail, I learn to cling,
To storms that bid me roam.
:: 01.15.2025 ::
Your smile an Arc of Mystery!
Your eyes a Silver Gleam
Your form a Sculptor’s Whisper
Your hands a Midnight Dream.
Your feet a Sacred Compass
To Worlds I’ve never known
Your grace my fleeting Fetish
A Heaven, all my own.
Oh, let me gaze Eternally!
On features etched in Light
For Love, a fleeting Shadow,
Becomes the Endless Night.
Invincible.
:: 01.13.2025 ::
Her nails bloom black as moons on trembling stems,
Whispering secrets to the midnight’s hems.
Anxiety, a serpent made of light,
Coils through the cracks of fractured night.
The Phoenix, laughing, eats itself anew,
Its ashes drift as stars in seas of blue.
No urn contains the echoes of its cries;
They bloom as cities in forgotten skies.
Upon the shelves, the objects start to hum—
A hollow ptyx becomes a beating drum.
The Master dives into the Styx’s glow,
To barter with the river’s undertow.
Through broken panes, the northern lights take root,
Growing unicorns of fire and fruit.
Their breath, a snowstorm made of molten clocks,
Consumes the void with gilded paradox.
The glass dissolves; the room becomes a field,
Where time unravels and the stars are sealed.
She floats, a mirror melting into air,
Her edges bleed with colors sharp and rare.
A septet of her faces sings in waves,
Their voices shape the rhythms of her graves.
Yet every note unfurls a phantom wing—
A song that only burning angels sing.
Oh, fleeting ghost of dreams and shadowed hue,
Your face dissolves into a different you.
For here, where time and space collapse in kind,
The soul unthreads the labyrinth of mind.
:: 12.28.2024 ::
(a universe) unfolds
between your( hands)
where Time unravels
in.the /quiet/ pulse
ofstars:are::born dying
(again)
and(i)am only a
fragment of whispered(trees)
drowning beneath the
thousandmouthed sky
(and clouds so soft
they
shatter)
oh,you.
are( the fierce )blue
hum of every
unsayable silence,
every:moment:
that
breathes—
into(i)tiny—a spiraling/word\
(lost
but.alive)
what is Light?
(ifnot.your)
gaze breaking
infinite( into trembling)—
earth cracks open,
an ocean of(you
rushing)
(a kiss
blooms where no lips have touched).
:: 12.21.2024 ::
Mor
tals—
Ascen
d into Their Each—
A Stagg
ering Plun
ge—be
gun—
Dizzied Or
bits—
Swu
ng Wide by Force
s—
Un
seen—
A Trap
eze of Being—
Careening through Somersaults—
A Gush of Elsewhere—
Opened—
Him—Her—Al
l—
:: 12.21.2024 ::
Notes:
So, as the poet of these verses I explain.
Fragmentation as a Tool of Disruption.
The deliberate breaking of words—”Mor/tals,” “Ascen/d,” “Stagg/ering”—disorients the reader, forcing them to engage with each syllable as a unique unit of meaning. This mirrors the fragmented and often chaotic nature of existence. The form itself becomes a metaphor for the poem’s themes: ascent, disarray, and reconstruction.
The deliberate breaking of words—”Mor/tals,” “Ascen/d,” “Stagg/ering”—disorients the reader, forcing them to engage with each syllable as a unique unit of meaning. This mirrors the fragmented and often chaotic nature of existence. The form itself becomes a metaphor for the poem’s themes: ascent, disarray, and reconstruction.
Last thoughts:
This poem is an experiment in form, language, and thought, one that dares to fragment the familiar in order to reveal the sublime. It challenges the reader to navigate its dizzying orbits and, in doing so, find their own meaning within its fractured brilliance. Like the “Brilliant Sun” it evokes, it radiates energy and light, illuminating the beauty and complexity of human existence.
Brilliant Sun’s Lithium feels like a poem written at the intersection of time and space—where mortals touch the eternal.
By morning’s light, my heart did fall,
Escaping from a chest now hollow, small.
At noon, a songbird dared to sing,
“Too soon,” it whispered on fleeting wing.
By dusk, the moon hung pale and slight,
Perched above the fading light.
It was then I knew: love was done,
Its flame extinguished, its battle won.
Kisses faded, skin grew frail,
Eyes shed tears in a final wail.
One drop remained—a token of pain,
A shard of love’s enduring chain.
For love is thicker than memory’s thread,
Yet thinner than the words unsaid.
It roars louder than the ocean’s might,
And falters in the quiet night.
What treasure lies in love’s embrace,
If alive, a triumph, a sacred grace.
But if lost, oh, how it forgives,
And still, in shadows, softly lives.
The sunlit skies, they scream and cry,
Proclaiming: true love never dies.
:: eprobles ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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