Silent threads of light,
Galaxies spin woven webs,
Stars hum cosmic songs.
Planets weave their paths,
Moon and sun in orbit’s loom,
Milky Way’s bright thread.
Before time unspun,
Darkness stretched a fabric vast,
Nameless space unfolds.

And yet here we sit
two minds beneath all of this,
wondering what’s true.

It has no shape, no voice that we can hear,
Yet raised the oceans, pressed the mountains high.
It holds no grief, no joy, no hope, no fear,
Yet sends the planets circling through the sky.

It has no name, no words to mark its will,
Yet trees grow tall, and rivers run their course.
It breathes in root and storm and meadow still
A quiet law, a motion without force.

Before the peaks were raised, the skies were spun,
It was — complete, untouched by change or need.
Still as the dusk, and older than the sun,
It moves through stone and sky and wind and seed.

I do not know its name, though I have tried
I call it Great, where all things still abide.

Before Thy throne, the Gods in awe incline,
Exalting souls that spring from hidden fire;
From Thee, Unconscious Source of the Divine,
Emerge the Fathers whom the Gods admire.

Two twins arose, one base, the other bright,
Their union shaped the world of form and name;
One bore the truth, the other forged the blight
Yet both returned unto the secret Name.

Then she, with mind both good and true,
Did craft the earth in wisdom’s silent grace;
All perfect things she to the spirit drew,
And housed them in the Mind’s eternal place.

Though man be last, his soul the stars contain
For gods and men are of a single chain.

Golden thread pulls tight,
soft whisper dressed in longing
the soul forgets home.
Flame that feeds itself,
burning joy into sorrow
let it die to live.
Cravings rise like mist,
vanishing with morning light
truth waits in the still.

I was once the wind that taught the wheat to bow,
a hymn rustling through the hollow of old branches,
and before that, a river that carried lost dreams and lullabies
to the mouths of waiting roots.

No bell marked the crossing.
No lantern swung above the gate.
I passed as smoke does
into the open mouths of new shapes,
Reborn.

They say the soul is a thread pulled through a hundred needles,
each time tearing into a different fabric:
feather, bone, brass, thirst, song.
Not to become, but to remember
what becoming cannot hold,
only held for a short moment in time.

I was hunger shaped like a wolf,
and later, grief that wore a girl's eyes.
Each body an orchard I neither planted nor owned,
but was asked to tend with quiet hands.

Reincarnation is not a ladder
it is a storm that forgets its last thunder.
It chooses neither upward nor wise,
but necessary.
To be what the story requires
in the moment the page turns.

One life, a seed beneath the floorboards.
The next, the axe.
Another, the breath of the one who grieves the falling.
And still, no beginning.
And still, no final version of flame,
Can it be.

The maker—if there is one
does not speak.
But leaves signs in frost
and patterns in the flight of startled birds.

So I do not ask what I will be.
I ask only:
What silence must I carry next?
What wound will I wear
to become the light pouring through it?
Upon this world.

You rage in CAPS, but never find your place,
Your fury burns, but leaves no trace.

A limerick laughs, a sonnet steals the show,
Your words fall flat, with nowhere to go.

You bark at form, at rhyme, at meter’s grace,
But tantrums fail your win erased.

You write with slurs, as if that buys you time,
Yet poetry’s fire is sharp and prime.

You could’ve learned a style a villanelle or line
Instead, you mock what needs that's fine.

Each sestina loops, it's a mindful art,
While snow globe and lava lamps just fall apart.

Pantoum, haiku, blank verse come on take your pick,
Tools to build, not tricks you *****.

You troll and scroll, but never touch the page,
Afraid to step into the poet’s stage.

R your name won’t last in rhyme,
Lost to noise and lost in time.

So throw your shade, pretend you’re deep,
But poets hold the truths you keep asleep