But perhaps— you are
not forgotten. Not truly.
Your voice threads the dusk
between radio static,

slips between keystrokes,
hums in the silence
after a song we don’t know
why we love.

The garlands might wilt.
But the roots are
underground and unsupervised.
And still growing.

needed a car yesterday, yesteryear
getting all the ducks in a row for my own car,
it's hard for a cowboy without a steed....
scabbing rides to work ain't fun
and ubering can get quite dear.... my dear
so who's gonna drive me home, tonight? .

These bridges you have thus built
and those you keep on building
are the ones we can always cross
from which pebbles we can toss
and watch their ripples downstream
crossing over into our once upon dream

Oh, to remember such
unspoiled kinship with the divine,
where even the wind was a companion
and silence spoke in full sentences.

Perhaps this poem isn’t just
a backward glance but a gentle invitation—
to return, not in time, but in spirit,
to that meadow of soulfulness
where love was once our native tongue.

Some part of us still listens
to the rustling leaves, hoping
the gods haven’t stopped calling.

globe
not a stage a planet

bruised planks orbiting a sun made of soliloquy

audience as constellation—
each cough, a satellite of meaning

Rome burned here twice daily, except Sundays

and Hamlet rose and fell like a tide without moon

this was the world entire— conflagration fuelled
                                        by candlelight and gesture

call the rain
name it— not for mercy or for penance.
let it seep through cracked stone,

drawn by what we almost remembered.

no supplication. no altar. only canopy. only air.
it falls, scrubbing silence off the last clean wall.
we call, again— not to keep it, but to let it go.