What Remains

Sometimes, it isn’t death that takes them
but something quieter, crueler.
We still see their face,
still hear their voice,
but the soul we loved has gone elsewhere.

No thunderclap of farewell,
just silence
where laughter used to live.
A dimming light,
a soft betrayal of warmth once constant.

They don’t vanish all at once.
They fall from us
in pieces.
A kindness gone here,
a tenderness gone there
until we’re holding a ghost
with a heartbeat.

We mourn them in secret,
while they walk beside us.
Not lost,
but no longer found.

And in the end,
what remains?
Only the name
echoing,
hollow
in the chambers of memory.

I said to her,
"I will betray you."

She smiled softly, like forgiveness,
but with devilish awareness
and whispered,
"Then let destruction be... beautiful."

I said,
"Teach me how do you fall?"

She said,
"Tango."

And we tangoed
like sinners in a church,
like wolves caressing silk that never sleeps.

A step... then a gasp.
A turn... then a scar.
Wound after wound,
until love forgot its name,
its features scattered between our feet.

And still, we danced
not out of love,
not out of regret,
but because the music never stopped.
Yet.

The poem is the pain of:
love and hate,
happenings and sorrows,
laughter and tears,
day and night,
again and again

Pain, in so many colors and shapes,
in whispers or screams,
in gentle aches or roaring storms

It is pain.
Yes, PAIN.
That ink, that pulse, that shadow in the verse
Always pain.

"Love, in its truest form, is resilient
but even the strongest bond unravels
under the weight of three corrosive forces:
the habit of error,
the comfort of falsehood,
and the absence of understanding.
For it is not anger that ends love,
but the slow erosion of trust, truth, and empathy."

Step into my heart
Step into my heart, my line,
Step deep inside and enter my soul in peace.
My wound is your wound,
My pulse is your pulse,
And the words, we speak to them the same.
The street of sorrows begins in me,
A wound awakening beneath my ribs.
And it ends there too,
When one day,
We can finally speak it aloud.
My line, my line and inside my heart,
Step in and enter my soul in peace.
These words yes, they are the same.
Oh, when I speak and you believe,
Believe in the truth and let it rise from your lips.
When I speak and you believe
The truth will find its sound.
From your right,
From your left,
From there, from here
Know me.
You will find me
The possible truth.
Hug me and hold me,
Throw me into the air
Draw me, colour me,
A bird released, flying free.
Oh, when we meet
Meet in the space between our words,
When we meet again,
Let it be on the words
That rise from our hearts.
Step into my heart
Step into my heart, my line…

I slept beneath a murmuring tree,
the breath of wind like whispered song
when from the dusky thicket near
a dove broke forth in sorrowed tongue.
Its coo, a tremble made of light,
a flame of grief in feathered white,
did pierce the veil of slumber’s shroud
and stir my heart to waking loud.
O! Sweet-winged ghost of aching skies,
you summoned tears from sealed eyes,
and sang of loves I once had known,
and all the souls I’d called my own.
How far I’d strayed from spirit’s call,
how deep the hush, how slow the fall
but in your cry, celestial dove,
I heard again the voice of love.
So let me weep and wake anew,
beneath the sky’s immortal blue,
and bless the winds, the wings, the morn,
where grief and beauty are reborn.

My granddaughter and me
the best artists to ever be!
We make, we write, we draw wild things,
So strange and bold, with scribbled wings.
We paint the sun with purple glue,
And give the moon a mohawk too.
We turn the clouds into mashed potatoes,
And make giraffes wear sweet pink halos.
You might look once and raise your brow,
“Is that a dragon... or a cow?”
But we just laugh and say with glee:
“You don’t see it? That’s on you, not me!”
We’re the best and no need to boast
Of silliness, we make the most.
So when you see our crazy art,
Know it's made with love and heart.

How on earth I end up with you
a question I bury in silence,
where answers decay.
How did I spend thirty-five minutes
trading my peace
for your poisoned lullaby?

How many times I should have left,
but stayed
each time a bruise
on the soul I pretend is whole.
Each moment,
a thread unraveling my name.

Deep purple sleep
where I float, numb,
ends nightmare.
Not with rest,
but with forgetting.

Thank God
for the wicked wake
the jolt, the break,
the moment truth
slices through the dream.
At last,
I breathe
alone.
Alive.

When Silence Stays

A small, dimly lit room. Two chairs, facing slightly away from each other. A window stage-left lets in muted grey light. Dust particles float in the still air. No sound and just the low hum of existence.

He – Hollow, reflective, withdrawn.
She – Worn, quiet, still carrying embers of feeling beneath her restraint.

He sits with hands clasped, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.
She stands at the window, unmoving, her back to him.
SHE (softly)
You haven't said a word in hours.
HE
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know… maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We’ve stopped living out of desire…
Now we just exist from a lack of death.

SHE
(turns halfway toward him)
It’s as if we’re waiting for something…
Something to come and end us.
But even the ending keeps getting delayed.
The scene stretches on,
like a film that should’ve faded to black… but doesn’t.

HE
Do you remember how we used to feel pain?
Real pain, sharp, loud, alive?
We’d scream, and somehow the screaming helped.
Like the pain was real because it echoed.
Now even the pain has gone cold.
As if we’re forbidden from enjoying it.

SHE
Not even crying over it anymore.
(teeth clench subtly)
We’ve started to stifle the pain…
Stifle the scream…
Stifle life.
But we don’t die.

HE
(quietly, almost a whisper)
And that’s the curse, isn’t it?
It’s harder than death
to keep living,
while nothing in your lives.

She finally turns to him.
There is silence between them, not empty and but swollen, like a storm that never comes.

SHE
Do you think we’ll ever feel again?

HE
I don’t know.
Maybe we feel too much…
and this is what happens when the soul gets tired of carrying it.

SHE
Then maybe silence isn’t the absence of words…
It’s what’s left when life leaves.

A long pause.
Light fades slowly until the stage is only grey and still.

End Scene…

He:
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know... maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We've started living from a lack of death, not from a desire to live.

She:
It's as if we're waiting for something to end us...
But even the ending keeps getting delayed, and the scene gets longer.

He:
Do you remember how we used to feel the pain? How we used to scream and find relief?
Now even the pain has become cold... as if we're forbidden from enjoying it.

She:
Not even crying over it.
We've started to stifle the pain, stifle the scream, and stifle life...
But we don't die.

He:
It's harder than death... to keep living, while nothing in your lives.

Scars of Light
My body is full of cuts and scars,
A statement written in quiet lines
Each wound a whisper from battles past,
A language of pain that never lies.
They said, “The wound is where the light breaks through,”
Then I should be glowing, shouldn’t I?
But some nights, even stars seem bruised,
And hope feels like a well run dry.
I walk like driftwood lost at sea,
No anchor, no wind to carry me.
Steps unstable, breath unsure
I’m chasing something that’s never pure.
My eyes, two windows to a fading spark,
Cannot find where the light ends or starts.
It flickers in dreams I barely hold,
A warmth remembered, now turned cold.
Yet still…
In the silence between every ache,
A softer voice begins to wake.
It hums beneath the weight of scars,
Like moonlight bleeding through prison bars.
Pain has been my cruelest friend,
But even sorrow must someday bend.
If I can breathe, then I can crawl
And if I crawl, I might still stand tall.
So let the wounds be open doors,
Not graves, but cracks that beg for more.
Let hope be stubborn, small, and slow,
A single seed in winter’s snow.
Yes, let it be…

Knowledge is power
My grandmother and father told me,
Knowledge is power.
What a masterpiece of comedy that was.
I believed them, like a fool with a library card.
Now I’m stuck with a brain full
of useless wisdom and a heart full of regret.
Even the doctor said,
‘Sorry, we don’t treat chronic belief in motivational slogans.’
So yeah… hats off to me.
Clown of the century. 🤡📚🤣

Devil 👿

I met the devil.
She didn’t ask.
Just lit the pipe
and blew death into my lungs.

My veins caught fire.
My soul cracked open.
Everything changed.
Nothing mattered.

Time?
I spent it bleeding in heaven
and screaming in hell.

I fell into her arms like a drunk punch,
and crashed into a winter storm
naked, high, and laughing.

She was beautiful.
Ugly.
Perfect.
My sleep paralysis in flesh.

Yes
I ****** the devil.
She wore my guilt like perfume.

Ecstasy?
To you, it’s a word.
To me, it’s her body over mine,
nails in my back,
truth in her lies.

Yes
I slept with the devil 👿
And she never left.

Yet, perhaps the most haunting truth is:
Without a question, the answer is meaningless. But without an answer, the question becomes eternal.

Circle of knowledge 😜

I Want to Stay Here
We went to see the Three Sisters
in the Blue Mountains
an iconic rock formation,
etched in stone by time
and by legend.
The old story tells:
three sisters turned to stone
to be saved from war,
frozen forever
by love and fear.
Nearby, where Norman Lindsay
dreamed his wild and wicked dreams,
the air still hums
with the laughter of ghosts,
and the soft madness of artists.
My grandchild,
with his small voice and wide heart,
was asked to come home.
He looked up and said,
"I want to stay here."
And my heart
my old, tired heart
heard him and answered too:
I want to stay here.
To feel the pleasures,
the madness,
the thrill
these mountains have lived and seen.
I wonder
how can a place bear so much
and still remain
green,
shining,
calm?
Yes.
I want to stay here too.