A fish sleeps in the clocktower
and dreams of teeth made of clouds—
You asked me,
“What color is silence?”
and I said,
“The one no eye can hold.”
We buried a ghost in a book of feathers—
each word a spine,
each sigh a storm.
I found your voice
pressed like a fossil in my ribs,
and the stars stitched your name
into my lungs with moon-thread.
The sky?
She remembers our names
when even we forget them.
:: 07.10.2025 ::
“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 ::
love is a pocket of sky—
a small bright chaos fluttering inside my ribs,
a paper bird that misplaced the word ground.
i wear its wings until they blister—soft silver blisters—
for love invents new ways to suffer in velvet, & i agree to every syllable.
tears are the quietest plural of rain; they trace unnamed continents
down my cheeks (hello, moon-eyed friend melancholy)
and teach my skin to remember salt as gospel.
but melancholy is no villain—she is a lantern with the flame turned low,
a hush that braids hours to echoes,
tucking stray seconds into your sleeping palm.
so let us—yes—sing, tenderly broken, wonderfully whole,
in the awkward lowercase of tomorrow:
for love, for tears, for the delicious ache of being,
even when ache is all we are!
:: 04.25.2025 ::
Your name
is still inside my mouth
like a bruise I begged for.
The room
smells like surrender—
jasmine,
salt,
the ghost of a star
you tore from my throat.
My thighs remember you
in languages
older than Earth—
every sigh
a translation
of your ache
into mine.
We didn’t just touch—
we undid time.
My pulse stammered
into your rhythm,
and we both forgot
our names
for a while.
You asked me nothing.
And I gave you
everything.
Now—
between your breath
and mine,
there is only
the hum
of something sacred
and wrecked.
Not love.
Not lust.
But that raw after-thing
that clings to the sheets
like confession.
I am not clean.
I am not sorry.
I am yours.
:: 04.13.2025 ::
Now you getting paid to work?
well, you ain’t no nigger now cause you
a working man now. Right?
:: 04.6.2025 ::
i am no ONE
i have yet
to meet
Presence deeper than
a ticking hand
and our Souls
do not move in minutes
but breathes within
eternities
:: 04.06.2025 ::
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
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 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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