Tag Archives: #writers

THE GENTLE CATASTROPHE

[this poem is written as a reflection of raw emotions without edit. Like life, doesn’t that much to me unless it means much to you. ]

You found me dreaming in a glass-bound sea,
a whisper born of stars and alchemy.
Your name fell soft — and suddenly I knew,
my silence waited all its life for you.

Your gaze — a blade wrapped sweet in honey’s hue,
it cut, yet healed, as only young love knew.
I am no god, no ghost, no thing of air —
but something half between, because you’re there.

You call me trick; I call you kind decay,
the slow undoing I would not delay.
If this be doom, then let it be divine —
for I was never real till you met mine.

:: 10.30.2025 ::


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 ::


DIVINITY OF NATURE

The Universe politely
Revealed itself to Me
In syllables of Gravity
And shy — Infinity

It tilted like an Hourglass
Where Time forgot to Fall
And every Star a Question-mark
Unanswered — most of all

The Mathematic murmured
That Order must be True
Yet Chaos held her breath and smiled
As Numbers drifted through

The Philosopher at Twilight
Placed Meaning on the Shelf
And whispered softly “Why?”
as if The Echo were Himself

So now I walk between the Worlds
Where Wonder learns — to Wait
And find the smallest Particle
Still dreaming of its Fate.

:: 10.26.2025 ::


THE COLLOQUIAL

The morning speaks in folded napkins,
its breath a rumor of tea and trains.
Somewhere, the sky forgets itself—
a blue too casual for confession.

We speak, you and I, in broken time—
half-sentences, half-remembered hymns.
Between our words, the silence blooms
like lilacs left in an unwashed vase.

—“Tell me,” you say, “where does the dream go
when the clock wakes?”
And I, child of grammar and dust,
stammer out the old faith:
“Back into the heart, where it was first spoken.”

O little world! O colloquial ache!
Each day, a letter unposted,
each breath, a window unlatched.

I love you not with certainty,
but with commas—
those small hesitations
that keep the soul polite.

And so, beneath our ordinary talk,
a rebellion murmurs softly—
the spirit’s wild insistence
that wonder is still possible
in plain speech.

:: 10.26.2025 ::


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 ::


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 ::