My words aren’t poetry true Poets give voice to the inexplicable like Nureyev magically defying gravity I merely pirouette across the stage calling it dance
Monday morning one hour late rough beginnings, we’re falling between words like lonely dreamers, while shadows of grief rise leaving threads of remorseful mysteries to untangle
They were hot to touch those uninhabitable spaces where catastrophes loom and humanity is found not in a priest’s benediction but in the entrances and exits of love
Another week passed, tirelessly somehow knitting better days into assurance, always searching for a journey’s end full of mystical compassion sparkling underneath the darkness
He said the light shone through it beautiful and not to be ignored but audacious hope melts away among the detailed game of unpredictability, an unholy crusade begun when even sometimes you are but a ghost
None of them had labels to warn us? now true discernment began in the quiet hours as I risked hope, stray thoughts of frightened words trickled in, as silent wishes of what about yesterday offered little solace
Sleep wouldn't come, beware the candle’s mystical cosmic devotion to tender nights, it’s the price for shadows of your powerful memories, no longer confident but obedient to loss
It was just a box of pain uncovered: war haunts with wildfire ghosts laughing at the starvation listening to ubiquitous cries for rescue but always it ends in secondhand news nothing learned no will to change
It’s not mischief was the point, enthralled in squeezing life’s good purpose out, now we bake in the sun of despair where on the horizon freedom is sometimes an echo
