When love declines
the heart grows cold
It becomes the moonlight
that chills the soul

Polished like marble
with all of its frills
It withers away
Attemptable to ****

What cold singing
from frigid lips
When the heart grows weary
From the vice of life's grips

When prayers become weeds
Scattered by wind
Left with nothing
But the hollow within

All seems different,
like a blurry landscape
with vanishing maps.
The distance from the past
keeps growing.
I slice through space and time,
on the chosen path,
along a trajectory of circumstances.
Against the denial of access,
against the gate closing,
just to hold together what was apart.

“perhaps the sun is a teacup, spilled by a girl in a skyhouse who laughs in polka dots–”

You wrote like someone
who had been listening
long before speaking,
each poem a hush,
each repost a gentle offering.

This space once held you,
your words, your calm curation,
a gentle steadiness
in a shifting field of voices.

take this small goodbye
not as an end,
but as a door left open,
just in case
you return with your light.

Until then,
may strength find you
in soft moments,
and peace arrive
never needing to be earned.

I could have known you
But I wasn't myself
A book far from view
To be left on its shelf
Forgotten memories
Of what could have been had
Out of place reveries
No more dreaming to add

I don't know who you are
But I tried to learn
Afraid to go too far
In the distance I burn
Out of nowhere and back again
Another friend lost
Let's meet nobody then
Make sure no one is crossed

We are the same
Just as everyone else
We keep things tame
Lest we fall as ice melts
And drown in the expanse
Of the void between souls
Timidly yearn to dance
With our own kinds of fools

On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.