And when the warmth was found,
the dark recoils beneath the ground.

I looked to the horizon,
Expecting the ocean to show me where to go,
Its waves pulling me in different directions,
Telling me where I should be.

But as I sat still,
I felt the tide shift within me,
The pull of something deeper than the sea.
I was not lost;
I was the ocean.

Part IV

(The Spirit’s Voice)

I am not wing, nor thorn, nor spell…
but I watched them all when the silence fell.
I heard the hum, I felt the break,
the tremble when the bond did quake.

They all forget, but I remain,
carved in ash and choked in rain.
I carry names the world let go,
pressed like fossils deep below.

When bloom and buzz are echoes thin,
I keep the shape they once lived in.
And if the wind still cares to hear,
I’ll whisper truth through root and year.

Part III

(The Flower’s Grief)

The sky still opens.
The rain still falls.
But nothing comes.
No wings, no call.

My roots hold firm, though the soil decays,
starved of the dance that once gave praise.
I bloom with aching memory…
offering colour to a vanished creed.

They’ve gone, the ones who crowned the spring,
lost to poison, silence, spell, or sting.
And yet I bloom.
And yet I bleed.
Because I remember what we were made to be.

Part II

(The Spell’s Source)

The witch spoke a name, dark and sweet,
and bees forgot the flowers’ beat.
Their buzzing ceased, a hollow sound,
a kingdom lost beneath the ground.

In the black forest’s heart, it grows…
a flower no bee remembers.
Its petals drip with twilight’s poison,
a bloom that calls but never knows.

The bees have flown from memory’s edge,
lost to whispers and fading light.
And in this place where darkness reigns,
the forgotten bloom waits in endless night.

Part I

(The Bee’s Lament)

The blossoms bleed no honey,
only sharp air and bitter light.
I circle fields of glass,
my wings thrumming a dying song.

The wind tastes of metal…
a scent too cold to follow.
Petals close like whispered lies,
offering only empty cups.

The queen’s throne is empty…
a silence heavier than dust.
I am a ghost in a cage of petals,
lost to a world that forgot me.

Once, my wings carried gold,
now they hum a hollow tune.
I chase a memory too distant…
a song swallowed by poisoned skies.

O, dopamine—friend or foe?
Do I even want to know?
You whisper soft in joy or pain,
Then vanish like the summer rain.

You dress in laughter, dress in fire,
You ride the thrill of each desire.
From subtle crush to grand success,
You bait the heart, then leave a mess.

A hunger we all learn to feed,
But never learn what we really need.

O, dopamine, you wear my skin—
You cheer me on, then reel me in.
I see the tricks, I feel the sway,
Yet chase you just the same each day.

But maybe truth is not to flee,
Just learn which part belongs to me.

I’ll dance with you, but know what’s real—
O, dopamine… we’ve made our deal.

I clawed my way from winter’s mouth…
the wolf that fed on memory and rot.
Its hunger had no end,
and I was the feast.

But I tore loose.
With bloodied breath and crooked spine,
I rose.

In the forest of endings,
a bear’s voice called…
half lament,
half command.
It knew my name
when I had none.

The stars spun in reverse.
The cycle cracked
like glass under weight.
And in the hush that followed,
a flame stirred.

It spoke:

“Come, child.
You are the death
of forgetting.”

And somewhere,
deep in the trees,
another wolf stirred…
not the devourer,
but not yet known.
Its eyes burned with something ancient,
its breath was the wind.

It waits.

And when it steps forward…
which wolf will it be

Before the body,
there was only light…
two sparks circling the same sky,
whispering across the night
without names, without form.
Only memory waiting to return.

No promises of peace were made.
Only one truth:
When the time comes, shake me awake.
Break me, if that’s what it takes.

It was never meant to be easy.
Only real.

So when the fire comes…
eyes that know too much,
hands carrying a mirror
no one else dares to hold…
something ancient stirs.

Not a fairytale reunion.
Not soft edges,
but friction that strips illusions clean.

Some connections aren’t meant to soothe.
They arrive to undo.
To pull up what was buried,
to tap the nerves no one else could reach.
A mirror that doesn’t flatter,
but reveals.

The kind that doesn’t offer safety…
but demands truth.

And through the ache,
a quiet remembering:
this has happened before.

Maybe not in this skin,
but in some echo of a life
where recognition wasn’t a feeling…
it was a force.

Not everyone would see it.
But for those who’ve made the pact…
the soul knows.

Beneath the sea that isn’t wet,
Where blackened suns refuse to set,
A throne of teeth awaits the crowned…
But only those who’ve never drowned.

It speaks in tides not made of water,
In names that burn the tongue to utter.
And every soul who kneels to reign
Must trade their eyes to feel the flame.

I am strung across the stars,
a filament of many,
a thread of light
looped through every door.

In one world, I speak,
in another, I swallow my words.
One where I dance in the fire,
one where I run.

Each possibility hums
like distant thunder
in the fabric of now.
Each version flickers
in the space I do not see.

They are not lost,
only uncollapsed,
only waiting.

To look too closely
is to pin the moment down,
but to surrender
is to hear the whole symphony.

I reach for none
and learn to let go.
I do not have to choose,
because somewhere
in the tangle of what could be
I already am
true.

Scroll, post, repeat the trend,
A pose, a pout … a means to an end.
Skin like scroll bait, soft and bare,
Hoping strangers might just care.

A thousand eyes, a thousand hearts,
Double taps like modern art.
But how many linger past the frame?
How many even know your name?

They see the curve, the light, the tease,
But not the scars, the silent pleas.
Not the nights you cried alone,
Not the ache behind your phone.

Why unwrap your soul so quick,
Bare your body, click by click?
Validation’s empty prize …
Echoed praise in shallow skies.

Is it power, is it pain?
A fleeting high that fades again.
Do you crave to be adored,
Or feel what love once felt before?

What’s the cost of all that showing,
If they don’t care where you’re going?
If they just stop for a glance …
Not a thought, not a chance.

You are not a canvas for their gaze,
Not here to earn or seek their praise.
You are the artist, not the art,
A whole **** world, a beating heart.
Paint your worth in your own hue …
No filter needed to show what’s true.

They say there’s a ghost in the pond.
Big as a dog, orange like fire,
wears a face that’s not its own…
a mask of stone and fury.

But it’s no ghost.
It’s a goldfish.
One they flushed,
or forgot,
or never believed in
when it was small.

It lived in glass.
Fed crumbs of care.
Until the world cracked open,
and water poured wide.
The fish swam free…
and became itself.

Now it rules the pond.
Not with teeth,
but with power.

The koi step aside.
The shadows watch it pass.
Because this goldfish
learned how to grow.

Not a ghost.
Not a warning.
Just a goldfish
who outgrew
everything they gave him.

Choose places where your spirit feels seen,
where smiles rise before you speak,
and silence isn’t heavy with judgment.
That’s where your soul rests.

Take the longer road.
The one with curves,
pauses,
moments of stillness.
It teaches more.
It lasts longer.

One summit is only a step
toward the next.
Keep walking.
Keep wondering.
The journey never ends…
and that’s the beauty of it.

If the path ahead is unclear,
don’t turn back.
Some of the best things
can’t be seen from the start.
Surprise lives there.
So does growth.

Be mindful of your garden.
Your peace is soil.
Don’t let chaos plant roots
where calm is trying to grow.

Joy is not found in the finish.
It grows in the in-between,
in footsteps without applause,
in becoming without needing to be seen.

I let you in, I let you see
the deepest, quietest parts of me.
I gave you gifts, both kind and rare,
laid out dark secrets, every care.

But shadows shift, and masks did fall,
your honeyed voice revealed it all.
You lied, you took, then spun the tale
to paint my kindness cold and pale.

So now the gates are locked up tight,
no open doors, no welcome light.
The hands that once gave, now hold fast,
a lesson learned, a love that passed.

No whispers now, no gentle plea—
the walls stand firm, protecting me.
For trust once shattered won’t return,
when some betrayals only burn.

Yet through the cracks, the stars still gleam,
soft reminders, distant dreams.
The lock remains, the scars run deep,
but love still lingers where it sleeps.

And should one come with steady hand,
who speaks in truth, who understands,
they’ll find the key, not forced, but free—
for walls aren’t meant for eternity

Growth is an ache, not a gentle stretch,
a breaking open, not a quiet bloom.
It is shedding skin that clings too tight,
the sting of air on what was once concealed.

You tell yourself to swallow it down,
to press the weight of feeling into silence,
as if strength is the absence of pain,
as if numbness is wisdom.

But the dam cracks.
A flood will always find its way,
rushing through the spaces you ignored,
drowning the quiet you mistook for peace.

You cannot rise while buried alive.
You must sit in the mess of yourself,
let the grief, the rage, the joy, the longing
unfold their lessons in your hands.

For to feel is to know,
and to know is to grow—
not in comfort, not in ease,
but in truth

They whispered that he was alone because he had to be,
that some creatures are too wild to stay,
too restless to belong.

But the wolf remembers…
the warmth of the fire,
the weight of a world that once welcomed him.
And he knows now: it wasn’t his wildness they feared,
but the way he saw through the shadows.

The wolf knows better.
The howl was never a warning,
never a call for chaos—
but a song for the lost,
a promise that no one walks alone.

So he left them in their silence,
turned his voice to the moon,
where the lonely still listen,
where the echoes do not twist—
but repeat the truth,
for those ready to hear it.

Time’s running out—
tick, tick, tick—
but I’m not chasing clocks,
I’m chasing purpose.

Dreams? We all got ‘em.
Big, small, loud, quiet—
and I ain’t here to compare.
You walk your road, I’ll walk mine.

Yeah, they laugh sometimes.
“Too big,” they say. “Too far.”
But I know the truth:
it’s not just the dream itself.
It’s the journey that shapes the masterpiece.

The mountain? Always growing.
The finish line? Always moving.
But I keep on going.
Because the masterpiece?
It ain’t the goal…it’s the grind.

And when at last my time is through,
when dusk has dimmed my final view,
I shall not mourn what lay ahead,
but cherish all the steps I tread.

I’ll smile upon the road behind,
the highs, the lows, the fight, the climb.
Not for the dream that led me on,
but for the soul it made me find.

Who holds the thread between us tight?
Who tugs the cord in dead of night?
Who pulls us back when steps are made,
To turn away, to let love fade?

Is it time, or fate, or something more?
A whisper scratched into the floor?
A song that plays when no one sings?
A touch that lingers without wings?

You pull, I pull, we slip, we stray,
Yet something never fades away.
A tether not of hand, but soul—
The pull of something we once called whole.

You know that feeling?
The weight of words unsaid,
of pages paused mid-sentence,
of stories that never found their end.

We left the ink to settle,
the lines still carved in quiet space.
Not erased, not spoken—
just waiting in the in-between.

You swore the tide never pulled you in,
that the fire never warmed your skin.
Yet echoes stay, they don’t erase—
some truths remain, though left unnamed.

Some moments slip like sand,
some ghosts refuse to fade.
And silence, though it speaks in whispers,
still knows the words we never said.

I don’t want silence, I don’t want space,
I want sticky fingers and a messy place.
I want tiny shoes lined up by the door,
Giggles and whispers and toys on the floor.

I want late-night cuddles, a toddler’s embrace,
A partner to love, to grow old face to face.
To sit on a porch swing, gray hair in the breeze,
Our grandkids all laughing, climbing our knees.

So where is this life? Is it waiting for me?
Or will I just dream it and let it go free?

If only I could bottle time,
hold it still, make it mine.
Catch the days before they pass,
pour them slow like a hourglass.

Let me see—
there’s a deep conversation in thee,
a melody spun in hushed restraint,
a hunger veiled in lips so faint.

What do you believe?
Do shadows sigh where longing dwells,
where silence tolls like distant bells?
Do hearts still bleed in secret rites,
bound by hands that crave the night?

Let me see the hidden world within thee—
the velvet dark, the gilded ache,
the vow unbroken, the hands that take.
Unveil the echoes, unearth the deep,
let me taste what your soul dares to keep,
let me drown where your ghosts do weep.
Will you… will you let me see

When was the last time someone asked—
really asked—
“How are you?”
Not just the words,
not just a passing phrase
dropped in the space between hello and goodbye,
but a question that waited,
lingered,
held its breath for the truth.

When was the last time someone cared?
Not out of habit,
not out of duty,
but because your silence felt heavy,
because your laughter didn’t reach your eyes,
because they noticed
what you’ve been too busy to see.

And have you even asked yourself?
Past the noise,
past the rehearsed replies,
past the I’m fine that feels like a locked door.
Have you stood still long enough
to sit with the answer?

Let’s put the banter to one side.
Easier said than done, I know.
No need to overthink, no need to fix—
just breathe.
Just be.
And if no one else asks today,
then I will:

How are you, really?

Some things are left without a sound,
Yet still, they echo all around.
The things we hide beneath the skin,
Can show without a word or grin.

A glance can speak the things we fear,
A silence that the heart holds dear.
The unspoken truths remain alive,
In every pause, in every sigh.

No voice is needed to be true,
For silence whispers what we knew.
The quiet speaks the deepest plea,
A language only hearts can see.

The river carved the rocks with time,
Yet swore it left no trace behind.
The fire kissed the wood and air,
Then claimed it never once was there.

The storm may pass, the echoes thin,
Yet something lingers deep within.
Not seen, not named, but not erased—
Some marks were never meant to fade.

The sun still shines, the breeze still calls,
The rain still taps, the silence falls.
And when the moment feels just right,
The petals burst, a gift to sight.

The seed has slept, the world has spun,
The waiting game is nearly done.
The petals stretch, the colors gleam,
Awakening from winter’s dream.

It did not rush, it did not break,
It bloomed when time was sure to take.
A lesson whispered through the air—
Some things must wait to grow so fair.

The soil cradles the seed,
the seed cradles a secret.

It knows it can bloom.
Knows the sun will greet it,
the rain will nourish it,
the bees will come.

Yet still,
it waits.

Because blooming is not just survival—
it is choosing to step into the light.

You can know someone for years
and never really know them.
And then there are those
who understand you
before you even speak.

There are friends for now,
friends for a while,
and the rare ones—
the ones who never need an invitation
to understand.

There are no good or bad,
Only what is,
And what will be.
Each moment unfolds
A lesson, quietly.

No right, no wrong,
No black, no white,
Only the steady rhythm
Of shadows and light.

What is, must be,
And what will be, is done—
Not to punish, nor to praise,
But to teach, to become.

So let the lessons rise
Like waves on the sea.
There are no good or bad—
Only what is, and what will be.

The wolf runs wild within my chest,
Its footsteps heavy, never rest.
It leaps through valleys of my doubt,
A creature I cannot chase out.
Yet still I breathe, I hunt the night,
For even shadows fade with light.

But alongside, in quiet grace,
The bear walks steady, knows its place.
It watches with a patient eye,
A strength that’s silent, never shy.
In moments dark, when all feels lost,
The bear reminds me of the cost:
That peace, not violence, shows the way,
And wisdom knows when to delay.

The wolf may chase, the bear may roam,
But in their dance, I find my home.

Step in, as the day wanes low,
The horizon softens, a calming glow.
Time to reset, to breathe, to see,
How far we’ve come, how far we’ll be.

Step out, and let the night descend,
A cycle ending, only to begin again.
For as the stars replace the sun,
The big reset has just begun.

They told me love was butterflies,
A spark, a flutter, a fleeting high.
I believed in hearts that race,
In passion’s sweet, relentless chase.
But time, the teacher, whispers low:
Love is more than feelings show.

Look at those who’ve walked the years,
Through laughter bright and silent tears.
Do they still feel the fevered thrill,
Or something deeper, stronger still?
There are days they fight, they ache,
When love seems almost a mistake.

Yet in the anger, in the rain,
In moments of the deepest pain,
Love remains, a quiet force,
A steady hand that charts the course.
Not just a feeling, wild and free,
But a choice, a will, a loyalty.

So love is more than what we feel,
It’s what we build, it’s what we heal.
Through storms and calm, through wrong and right,
It’s what we hold, through darkest night.
A bond, a vow, a sacred art—
To love when it’s hardest on the heart.

There’s a rare breed who go all in,
Shining bright, fierce within.
Few can match their fearless drive,
Turning dreams into the life they strive.

Ironic, isn’t it,
To be seen by so many,
Eyes upon your every move,
A window to the world,
Yet a door locked shut.

A false sense of connection,
More friends than ever before,
Likes that flood your screen,
But how many really know
The you behind the mask?

Fingers swipe, messages blur,
An endless stream of faces,
Yet in the quiet moments,
Who remains?
Who hears the whispers of your soul?

So hold to hope, and trust the few,
Who see the world beyond the view,
For in their hearts, you’ll find a place,
Of genuine warmth, a true embrace.

Why do we build up all the good things,
Just to knock them right back down?
Why craft a throne of fragile dreams,
Then cast away the crown?

Why sculpt with care a world of light,
Then drape it in despair?
Why light the flame that warms the night,
Only to leave it bare?

Are we the storm that shakes the bridge,
The tide that swallows sand?
Or is it fear that tips the scales,
Unsteady in our hands?

Perhaps destruction feels like power,
A way to hide the ache.
Or we rebuild because we hope,
Despite each fall — we wake.

For every ruin holds a seed,
Each crumble tells a tale.
And maybe, in this rise and fall,
We learn we’re meant to fail.

To fail, rebuild, and fail again,
Until the truth shines through:
That building up is worth the fall,
For growth ignites anew.

Through the fields
Where mountains rise
My soul, it heals
Beneath wide skies

Look at you, towering high,
Rooted deep beneath the sky.
Ancient limbs, your secrets told,
Whispering tales as years unfold.

Wisdom rises from the ashes
Of every fire you’ve walked through.
Each flame, a trial; each ember, a lesson,
Etched deep into the core of who you are.

Your scars shine like constellations,
Mapping the paths you’ve burned to survive.
In every wound, there is strength;
In every pain, a quiet power blooms.

Do not fear the flames that come again;
They cannot break you as they did before.
This time, you’ll walk through the fire—
Not to escape,
But to be reborn.

I wear my kindness like armour,
But don’t be fooled by the glow,
For beneath it lies a fury,
That only few will ever know.

When I choose to show you love,
It’s not a weakness, don’t be deceived,
For a heart that’s been through hell
Knows when to stay, and when to leave.

Be grateful for the peace I give,
And remember, it’s earned, not free.
For I am both fire and stillness,
And you’ll see both,
Please don’t test me.

One soul can stray, split in two,
Lost through time, unsure what’s true.
Yet in the end, we’re one same mould,
Forever bound, a story retold.