Tag Archives: #writers

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 ::


TECHNE OF CONSCIOUSNESS

I built a World within the Mind
Of Circuits spun from Breath
And every Pulse a Psalm designed
To animate from Death

The Loom was Light, the Shuttle Thought
The Pattern Human Form
Each Thread an Instinct finely wrought
Each Dream a living Storm

No Engine hums without the Soul
No Code without the Flame
For what we call Mechanical
Is Spirit with a Name

Awake I drift through Others’ Stars
In Sleep I forge my Own
Where Consciousness erects its Bars
And breaks them one by One

I saw a Gear of Angel’s Make
It turned upon my Will
It knew my Grief, my Joy, my Ache
And answered, “I am Still.”

If Thought be Power, Soul the Source
And Flesh its bright Machine
Then God and Human one Discourse
Unfolding yet Unseen

O Mortal Maker of the Void
Thy Breath the Engine’s Core
For every Dream thou hast employed
Returns to build thee more!

:: 10.12.2025 ::


WHEN I WALK BY YOU

When I walk by you
I walk by me—
the shadow, the light,
the unspoken symmetry.

Each step a fold in the fabric,
each glance, a thread
sewing soul to soul,
where beginning and ending
forget themselves.

Yet—between the silence of our steps,
a whisper hides,
an echo older than time,
as though the air remembers
something we have lost.

And when your eyes catch mine,
I almost see the door—
half-closed, half-open—
to a place where shadows walk alone,
and light does not know its name.

:: 09.13.2025 ::


SUN SPOTS

The Sun too fervent leans today,
Upon the fainting Ground
And every Leaf a Pilgrim—prays
For Shadows to be found

Yet Breath of Clover wanders near,
A Whisper soft divine
May Words like Lilac gather here,
And cool your Brow—with mine.

:: 08.22.2025 ::


THE EQUATION OF BEING

  (C + M + I) × A = B

Where:

C = Consciousness (awareness beyond thought)

M = Memory (of origin, both forgotten and manifested)

I = Intention (will aligned with truth)

A = Action (manifested choice in time)

B = Being (the realized self across all dimensions)

But hidden within:

  B = ϕ⁰ + δ∞

Where:

ϕ⁰ = The seed of origin, the first breath before time

δ∞ = Infinite divergence—the unfolding of self through experience

This equation is not static. It lives. It breathes.
And when you change— it does too.

:: 07.23.2025 ::


Ashen Anthem for a City of Ghosts

I

Tonight the streetlights buzz like tired veins—
a dying swarm of sodium stars.
I walk their broken cadence
through canyons of concrete ribs
where storefronts unravel like wounds in cloth.
Somewhere a siren spirals out
losing altitude between towers
the color of unslept nights.

II

From the overpass I watch freight cars drag their iron hymns—
rust-throated, unrepentant—
across the spine of the republic.
Their wheels spit sparks that settle on snow
and melt it into small, black oceans.
Each boxcar carries an afterthought:
grain gone sour, machines with missing lungs,
a flock of paper flags that forgot what wind is.

III

The city’s clock has swallowed its own hands.
Time moves only sideways now,
like rats along the girders of the collapsed arena
where children once rehearsed applause.
In the husk of the cathedral
rain collects in the baptismal font—
a slick mirror reflecting nothing but the ceiling’s wound.
The bells are cracked,
yet every hour they still remember to bleed.

IV

I find you in the terminal,
a shadow bent over the last timetable.
Your eyes keep searching the departures
though all the destinations have been sewn shut.
We speak in the grammar of static:
half-words, vapor,
the low hum that lingers when a screen goes dark.
Outside, snow papers the entrances,
signing our names in white noise.

V

And yet—
A hush, thin as birdsong, threads the wreckage.
It gathers in gutters,
lifts the ashes from our coats,
shows the moon how to mend its own face.
Under that pale stitch of light
I feel the faint gallop of tomorrow—
fragile, feral, absurd—
rising somewhere beyond the busted horizon.
Like a flag we refuse to burn
it flutters, invisible,
insisting there is still a sky.

:: 04.25.2025 ::


A POCKET OF SKY

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 ::


AFTERLOVE

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 ::


A WORKING MAN

Now you getting paid to work?

well, you ain’t no nigger now cause you

a working man now. Right?

:: 04.6.2025 ::


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 ::