A vision emerged, unbidden, from the throne of God—
Unveiling why the stars fell the way they did.
A blessing it was, in the hour my compass broke,
When truth returned like thunder to the bones.

Unspoken thoughts stirred beneath my soul,
Buried truths I had long known but dared not name—
And bearing them now feels like exile from myself.

Something ancient whispered: “Send it forth.”
Not to man, but to the sky and spirit beyond.
And though I know not why, I obeyed.

Now, I stand at the mouth of two shadows—
One is freedom, the other, death.
And strangely, I do not fear either

- Niko Randeni

Throughout this life, a thread has bound me—
To souls I’ve touched, and those who touched me.
Family, lovers, friends once near,
Now ghosts I cradle year by year
Their absence carves what presence shaped.

While others shed their past with ease,
I bleed for those I cannot release.
For every bond—be it bliss or scar—
Holds a tale, a flame, a distant star
That begs to burn, not fade away.

What gift is greater than a soul aligned?
What lingers longer than a tethered mind?
We leave with nothing, but the names
That echo through the heart like flames—
Memory and legacy, our only claim.

- Niko Randeni

I walked a path where silence sung,
Each step a note the keys had wrung.
Like a pianist bound to ghostly strains,
Composing truth through phantom pains.

The music rose, but none could hear—
They danced to shadows, far from near.
Their hearts drew meaning not my own,
And left the soul beneath unknown.

I once met a pianist, weathered and still,
His fingers bled truth on ivory bones.

I asked, “Why play alone for all these years?”
He sighed, “There was a time I did not.”

- Niko Randeni

Two summers have passed, but no light ever came,
Only a ghost, and whispers without name.
It speaks through the void, with regret in its breath,
But bears no form—just the scent of death.

Each time it nears, it retreats once again,
Dissolving to nothing, like tears in the rain.
It erases the truth, then returns in the night,
To haunt every dream and swallow the light.

- Niko Randeni

He scribbles his soul — though it won’t reach,
But hope clings on, like an endless leech.
Words take form — and the echoes flood,
With void and sorrow in his blood.

He’s no pious fool nor mortal saint;
Knows no pen can erase, and no ink could paint
The echoes back then, nor the ones he’ll miss —
Yet they must be paged, before the reaper’s kiss

- Niko Randeni