Donut Disturb


Do not knock until I’ve iced my mood,
glazed in sugar’s gentle trance.
Each hole a hollow plea for peace—
sprinkles shielding sleepy thoughts.
Ring me only when calories don’t matter.

"Murmur of Whiskers”





In pre–dawn hush
you pad across linoleum—
soft paws tracing the map
              of my half–dreams.

                Your quiet breath
becomes a tethered prayer,
stitching ragged edges
of my nightly fears.

              No need for words:
your calm is the benediction
       that steadies my pulse
before the world awakes.






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Light
A single spark
arcs
in the hush of thought,
braiding
hope into the dark.

Residue
Grey ash settles
on pages never finished,
charred
margins tracing first desires.

Memory
From cinders
of yesterday’s fervour
rise soft echoes
of half-formed melodies.

Message
We shape our breath
into tethered words,
casting lantern-bright
into another’s night.

Light
That echo returns,
igniting fresh wonder—
the spark leaps on.







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“Veins of Mist”
by arqios

The hills exhale in threads— pale veins of mist
                            tracing the pulse of morning.
Beneath the hush, stones remember the weight
                    of footsteps that never returned.
A crow calls once, and silence folds a cloak around it.
The sky does not answer. It only listens
             with the patience of old gods.

"our online lives"

I just stumbled on you in poem
and its quiet ache has stayed with me
all afternoon. The way it turns
a missing notification into something
almost sacred—pixels drifting
like fallen leaves, prayers planted
in comment rows—feels so true
to our online lives.

when the quiet breaks


i learned to love the silence
not because it felt like peace—
but because it never lied to me.

the noise left bruises,
every laugh a little jagged
every “i’m fine” cracked at the edges
and every promise wore someone else's face.

but silence? she didn’t pretend.
she just sat beside me while my hands trembled,
while my breath forgot how to stay.

people say healing is loud
but mine looked like folded laundry
and rooms i didn’t run from.





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“Epistle at Noon”


Steam curls from the chipped mug—
a psalm rising in arabesques
against the sunlit kitchen tile.

My spoon taps a rhythm
like distant temple bells,
calling memory from its slumber.

Between the coffee’s warmth
and the hush of half–read pages,
I find an unexpected covenant:
mercy in ordinary motion.






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