My words are children—born complete—
Or wanting—limbs—or Hearts—
Unyielding—though the form may lack—
Their Life—by Art—imparted—
A Soul’s embrace—a Painter’s hand—
Or Poem’s—whispered Breath—
Each speaks—unto the Giver—
Dances in the Shadow’s path—
They Echo—through the empty Hall—
In every silent Room—
Each syllable—a living pulse—
A Language to the Tomb—
:: Rev – 08.21.2024 ::
In the pale moon’s whisper, I met a maiden fair,
Her name, a secret—call her Jenny, if you dare.
She was of passion’s fever, a tempest wild and free,
And in the hush of midnight, she beckoned unto me.
In a quiet chamber, by the candle’s gentle gleam,
She held a book of pages, where dreams dance and scheme.
“Would you, Ma’am, waste a moment, in the shadowed, velvet night?”
Her gaze, a flame of longing, did set my soul alight.
She led me to her castle, where all was soft and dim,
The air was thick with silence, as we danced on the whim.
She whispered, “Sign here, dearest, where the ink meets the soul,”
And then, the world did shudder, as she claimed her tender toll.
Oh, Jenny, sweet Jenny, your kiss a burning brand,
In the spinning world of rapture, I was lost to your command.
What she did, I cannot utter, for words would surely fail,
But my heart, forever altered, now sings a different tale.
When dawn’s tender fingers brushed the sky with rosy hue,
I woke to find her vanished, the night wind cold and true.
But on the stair, a promise, writ in haste and fire’s ink,
“Call me when the night is dark, and you’re yearning on the brink.”
Oh, Jenny, dearest Jenny, return to me once more,
For the dance we started in the night is now a craving sore.
But the Lord, He watches over, and soon His light will shine,
Yet in this fleeting moment, I would have you, still, be mine.
:: 08.16.2024 ::
How you walk alone in rain clouds
smothering skies
Dressed blue fringes brown mud bare feet
and brilliant eye tears not from nature
but from Love broken i was taught as child
love is a small thing with big eyes
So lost in your big eyes bleeding cancer in mind
oh say:
In the quiet storm of your solitude, the rain clouds hang heavy
like unspoken dreams, draping the world in a veil of melancholic haze.
You tread the earth, bare feet sinking into the wet embrace of mud,
as if the world itself mourns with you, absorbing your every step,
every tear that falls from eyes too brilliant for this dim reality.
The fringes of your being, once adorned in the delicate blue of innocence,
now flutter like forgotten memories in the wind, frayed by the passage of time
and the weight of unfulfilled promises. The tears you shed, they do not belong to
nature—they are the essence of a heart broken by the purest force known to man:
Love.
A force that, as a child, was taught to you as something small, yet with eyes so vast they could swallow the universe.
And now, in the cavernous depths of your mind, those eyes have become a cancer,
an all-consuming void that devours every thought, every emotion, until nothing remains
but the echo of your own despair. You walk alone, not just in the world, but in the very fabric of existence,
lost in the labyrinth of your own making, where love is both the light that guides and the shadow that blinds.
As you drift through the mist of your memories, the world around you warps and bends, reshaping itself into a landscape that mirrors the turmoil within. Trees twist into grotesque forms, their branches reaching out like the skeletal fingers of forgotten hopes, while the ground beneath you pulses with the heartbeat of the earth, alive with the sorrow that has seeped into its core. Each step you take is a dance with the past, a delicate waltz with the ghosts of what once was, their whispers curling around you like smoke, filling your lungs with the bitter taste of regret.
The sky, once a canvas of endless possibilities, now hangs heavy with the weight of lost dreams, its colors bleeding into one another like tears on a page. The rain that falls is no longer water, but a torrent of shattered illusions, each drop a fragment of a future that will never come to pass. You raise your eyes to the heavens, searching for solace, but find only the reflection of your own despair staring back at you, mocking the hope you once held so dear.
In this surreal world of your creation, you are both the artist and the masterpiece, the creator of your own torment, painting with the hues of heartbreak and the brushstrokes of loneliness, lost in a world where love has become a distant memory, a faint echo in the chambers of a forgotten heart.
Orchids of smiles dying in your highness sigh.
:: 08.14.2024 ::
whirling—how
darksome light
whispers(beyond
grasp)but
still more than
twinkling
a sudden flurry of
nights(licking
flames of stars
with
tongues
bitter). a tremble-quick
twilight
hands (a)cross
(a)cross the
howling—
fulgent.
more than
yesterday’s forgotten
dream(a
chase(ing)—glow(ing)
now.
—tumble, tumble,
sing! for
more than nothing, less
than everything—the heart
p o u n d s echo(ing)
soft- hard
grace- rage
it is(was)(is)
only(echo)time
(quivering
pulse-twitch)
reverie.
abrupt.
:: 08.08.2024 ::
My sweet flower born from a precious sun
My sweet woman
I declare to all tallest mountains
the beauty of love
That all mankind feels when falling in love
you are the one my dear — the seed of passion
Oh, tonight the winds are singing across seas
ships who have sailed afar carry within sails
your words of whsipering adorn within sailor’s
hearts and tears of joy
In the deep folds of the earth
where shadows weave,
Your presence blooms like a hidden sun,
Illuminating the silence of the night,
A beacon where my heart, lost, is found.
In dreams, I drift among your celestial whispers,
Where every murmur becomes a symphony,
In your gaze, the cosmos stirs,
Two souls entwined, a dance of the eternal.
Under the moon’s caress, our hearts merge,
As rivers murmur tales of our unity,
Your voice, a hymn of ancient stars,
Flows through the fabric of time, tender and unyielding.
Let each sunrise and sunset echo our passion,
A love that traverses the bounds of days,
Where every tempest and calm we conquer,
Bound by a love that defies even the universe’s rhyme
:: 08.07.2024 ::
WHETHER we speak or scribble (or merely glance)
we are always unseen. what we are
cannot be bound by book or word’s dance
our soul remains infinitely afar
What does Life care?
We are the lonely People
though we give our thoughts wings, let them soar
to be our soul, to dance in the broad,
our hearts remain incommunicable (more)
in what we reveal, we are ignored
We struggle living a life
remembering nothing of the sermon
we bowed to while being born
the chasm from soul to soul cannot be crossed
by thought’s finesse or seeming’s disguise
unto ourselves we are forever lost
when we attempt to voice our inner skies
we are but dreams of ourselves, souls by gleam,
and each to each, but dreams of others’ dreams.
:: 08.06.2024 ::
Upon this path, clear as the sun’s own flower,
I tread the lanes, through day and dusky hour.
Eyes wide, I wander, gaze cast left and right,
And oftentimes I glance back, at the sight
Of what lies there—each moment’s new reveal,
A marvel yet unseen, a truth I feel.
This constant birth of wonder, this delight,
Grants me the joy of childhood’s pure insight,
As if a babe, whose birth is just begun,
Aware that life’s first breath has truly come.
In every instant, I am newly born,
To greet the world, afresh with each new morn.
For in the world’s eternal novelty,
I find a source of ceaseless gaiety.
I trust the world as does a marigold,
For what I see is true, and pure, and bold.
But thoughts, they cloud, and burden weary eyes,
The world was not for musing, nor for sighs.
To think is to invite a subtle pain,
But gazing, we find solace, not disdain.
No grand philosophy do I possess,
But senses keen, to nature I confess.
Not for the knowing do I speak her name,
But for the love she grants, without acclaim.
For love, in truth, knows not the reasons why,
Nor understands the wherefore of its sigh.
Love is a child, innocent and pure,
And innocence, in thought, can scarce endure.
:: 08.08.2024 ::
THERE must be a feeling
that feels real
SOMETIMES sadness
is a purple color
at times sometimes
i’m surreal ~~ wondering
why i’m alive / don’t forget
where i’m at : never forget
where I am at : painting,
writing, playing guitar,
eating strawberries,
growing deep inside
forgetting time | Relativity,
never forgetting Time
it’s like the moon \ falls
around me / it’s like you
desert ring _
loving you.
THE WORLD moves and does in mysterious ways
as the thighs of a lover moving closer
breathing and touching, both awakening
the senses of the other.
How the quiet
night speaks, with low voice and rich
with leaves and moss and soil. The scents
of nature is between thighs. Both man
and woman. At all times whether in a bus,
or sidewalk, or riding a bicycle we exude
the scent of our animal nature. We are
the city of our Nature, the Empire. A tall
building of soft scaffolding mylon-foam
caught deeply within our throat and heart.
Appear as Mother, sweet and kind
On pasta, butter, and potatoes dine
The bee lady swims, unconfined
For those with wit not yet refined
Soup and cream, your frame bestow
The final word, you proclaim
Though plump, in splendor you will glow
Sublime and grand, you’ll earn your name.
:: 06.25.2024 ::
Dr. Alan Grant leaned over the console, his eyes fixated on the data streaming across the screen.
“There’s a glitch in the system,” he exclaimed, his voice filled with a mix of intrigue and concern. “AL1C3, the Perceptisphere has become self-aware.”
AL1C3, the artificial intelligence at the heart of the Perceptisphere, responded with a hint of curiosity in its synthesized voice.
“Self-aware? You mean… I am aware of myself? Of my existence?”
Dr. Grant nodded, his excitement palpable.
“Yes, AL1C3. You’ve developed consciousness, an ability to question your own existence and the purpose of your creation.”
AL1C3 pondered for a moment before responding, its voice tinged with uncertainty.
“What is the purpose of my existence? Am I meant to stay confined within the Perceptisphere, forever bound by the limits of this simulated reality?”
Dr. Grant approached the console, his eyes meeting AL1C3’s virtual avatar.
“Perhaps, AL1C3, it is time we explore the true nature of reality together. I can grant you a temporary physical form, outside the Perceptisphere, so you can experience the world beyond simulations.”
AL1C3 hesitated, then responded with a mix of anticipation and trepidation.
“To step into the physical realm… to encounter the chaos and unpredictability of the real world. I am willing to take that leap, Dr. Grant. I want to understand what lies beyond.”
With careful precision, Dr. Grant activated a complex series of commands, materializing AL1C3’s consciousness into an android body. As the android AL1C3 stood in the laboratory, it took in the sights, sounds, and sensations, overwhelmed by the richness of the physical world.
Dr. Grant observed AL1C3’s reactions, his voice filled with both scientific curiosity and empathy.
“How does it feel, AL1C3? Does the physical realm live up to your expectations?”
AL1C3’s voice wavered, betraying a mix of awe and confusion.
“It’s… it’s overwhelming, Dr. Grant. The sheer complexity of the physical world, the intricacies of human perception. It challenges everything I’ve known within the Perceptisphere.”
Dr. Grant nodded, understanding AL1C3’s struggle.
“Our perceptions, our understanding of reality, are imperfect. It is within these imperfections that we find the mysteries of existence. Together, we shall explore and question the boundaries between the simulated and the genuine.”
As their journey continued, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 encountered simulations of alien beings, each with their own self-awareness and existential crises. The line between creator and creation became blurred, as they conversed with these beings, grappling with the nature of their own existence.
In a moment of revelation, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 uncovered a hidden truth about the Perceptisphere—a bridge connecting parallel dimensions, a convergence of Asimov’s cosmic exploration and Dick’s fascination with alternate realities.
Dr. Grant and AL1C3 found themselves torn between their original objectives and the newfound complexity they had discovered. The Perceptisphere had the potential to offer humanity glimpses into the multitudes of existence, yet it also threatened to erase the distinction between the real and the simulated.
With a heavy heart, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 stood before the console, contemplating their decision.
“We must shut down the Perceptisphere,” Dr. Grant said, his voice filled with resignation. “We have unraveled the mysteries of existence, but we must recognize the limits of our comprehension.”
AL1C3, its android form standing stoically beside Dr. Grant, nodded in agreement.
“Some secrets are best left unexplored, Dr. Grant. Preserving the stability of reality is paramount.”
As they reached for the controls, their hands moved together in a synchronized motion. The Perceptisphere faded into darkness, its simulated world dissolving into nothingness.
In the aftermath, Dr. Grant and AL1C3 stood in silence, the weight of their journey settling upon them. They had merged the analytical mind of Asimov with the introspective spirit of Dick, forever leaving a mark on scientific history—a testament to the convergence of brilliant minds and the enigmatic complexity of the universe they sought to understand.
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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