What does a kiss on a soft cheek cost?
A heart?
Laid in her palms
Is that the price?

Or a soul
Should it be
At her feet
Sacrificed?

Or maybe the time that is left
The last breath
The final sigh
In return
For a moment,
For lips to touch?

Tell me
What more should someone offer?
What more will she ask?

For the right
To rest
Two weary pilgrims
My longing lips
on the sacred land
of her cheek?

when all the birds have broken their wings
i will cradle your blood in my palms like holy water.
it’s warm,
warmer than god’s voice ever was.

time does not speak to me.
it only gnaws.
i lie beneath the floorboards, fingernails black with rot,
scraping remnants of lace and dried sweetness
from the soft decay of forgotten girlhood.
those torn seams, those salt-laced dreams—
what is purity but a ghost in the mildew?

O hearken!
the lilies are shrieking again.
their tongues curl like burnt scripture.
and i—
forever entranced by the acacia with the broken branches—
watch it weep sap like blood from an open wound,
as if to mourn something
only the trees remember.

i have swallowed the nightingales,
pressed their hollowed bodies
to the roof of my mouth
and vowed to keep them safe.
put your hands within me
and you will know the breaking of their wings—
each bone snapping in rhythm
with the pulse beneath my skin.

Our God sees everything
but he blinks often.
how could anyone have a mother?

your ribcage—once cathedral, now ruin—
shatters under the thousand-eyed weight
of dead saviors.
their halos clang as they fall.
your conscience flickers like static,
blotted out by the black geometry
of the insatiable void.

cassiopeia screams into her chains
but the stars do not loosen.
the universe unfurls
like a paper body
set alight.

O hearken!
kneel for the Great Reprieve!
when all the birds have broken their wings—
may we bleed beautifully.
oh mercy you, oh mercy me.

How beautiful a love so great,
So pure, so vast, so full,
That the glass in which it was poured into
Breaks so that it can spill onto the world.
It quenches crops wilting with thirst
And waters lands cracking with dust
And descends upon helpless fish
In a flood that saves them,
Takes them home
Back to the sea

every evening i slaughter the sun.
every evening i cut her up on unforgiving mountain peaks
i dip her blood orange blistered flesh in saltwater;
i do this for the moon.
the sun gurgles as she drowns

I longed to call her mine,
But she wept for a love not mine.
One heart broke so another could survive.

I the lie that keeps on giving
twice denied life and the living
we sacrifice our palms and bury our feet
with smiles disarm with smiles we eat
a feast a deluge all is devoured
our sensibilities overpowered
why rest upon a tattered bed
when you can sleep with sin instead
and waste away your weary hours
building castles, steeples, towers
all will crumble in the end
and so to you my dearest friend
let’s raise a toast to that which haunts
the holy ghost and spirit it taunts
that knows not good or evil
a land of lost forgotten people
but may we tread a righteous path
for who knows which will have the final laugh.

Operation Overlord - 156,000
British forces at Normandy - 61,000
Troops on Gold Beach -24,000
Troops in the 50th (Northumbrian) Infantry Division - 18,000
Troops in 8th Battalion - 800
two-inch mortar team - 2
Troop at war within a war - 1

Among tens of thousands ultimately it was one on one,
fighting with self, the unholy fear that sat undigested
with the bile and ration biscuit.

My Grandad survived this
He came back, yes, but he was not the same man
He scrambled ashore under the crack of mortar fire
and the scream of steel against sand.
The war took away chunks of him—pieces he could never get back. Something had changed in the way he stood,
the way he looked at the world,
as though he carried an invisible weight
that no one else could see.

At first, his laughter would still bubble up,
his humour slicing through the tension of everyday life,
as sharp and wry as it had always been.
Yet behind the jokes, there was a shadow,
a far-off echo of horror, the smell of salt and explosive,
the faces of comrades lost in moments too fleeting for words.
He buried it all, carefully,
under layers of quiet strength and fatherly love.
His family would never need to bear it;
it was his burden alone.

He returned to the vagaries of civilian life,
to conversations about the weather and pansies,
to cups of tea and headaches,
to the small joys and irritations that make up a life.
But there were nights when the past surged up like a tide,
relentless and suffocating. In those moments, he would sit alone in the dark, *** end in his hand gripping his knee,
and wrestled with the ghosts of Normandy.
He never spoke of it to his children.
Not the fear. Not the chaos.
Not the image of himself kneeling over a mortar
with trembling hands,
fighting not just the enemy but the primal terror of death.

Instead, he built a life for those he loved,
pouring himself into the role of father and grandfather,
filling the silence with stories
of building inspections and seaside holidays.
His silence about the war was not an omission but a shield—
an act of love to protect his family
from horrors they should never have to know.
And in that silence, there was heroism too,
a quiet bravery in choosing to carry the unthinkable alone.

Among eight billion choices,

I chose the one whose heart doesn’t beat for me.

I chose the one who wasn’t born for me.

I chose the one who doesn’t even know me.

I wondered why… until one night, I understood.

Because—

He is the Dasharatha Nandana, every girl dreams of.

He is the Devaki Nandana ,every mother longs for.

He is the Rama,the strength every sibling leans on.

He is the Sri Krishna,the friend every Sudhama needs.

He is the dream, that lingers even when I wake.

He is the story, written in every heart.

He is the sun, that brightens the darkest days.

He is the river, that never stops flowing.

He is the wind ,that carries whispered prayers.

He is the word,that even a thousand words fail to define.

He is the nature, embracing endless miracles.

He is the ocean, holding countless mysteries.

He is the light, breaking through the darkness.

He is not mine, yet he belongs to all.

He is not just a person, but a presence .

A force, a legend, a name whispered in every era.

He is beyond dreams, beyond time.

Yet, he is the one my heart recognizes.

A Beloved of the Universe, A Stranger to Me.

A Love Meant for All, But Never for Me.

The Distance Between My Prayer and His Name.

Devotion Without a Destination.