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Asuka Apr 29
It doesn’t rain —
it weeps through a broken mask,
the sky unzipping its stitched-up grief
and letting sorrow bleed down like silk.

Rain drips like rosary beads
counting sins backwards,
washing blood from sidewalks
but not from time.

Animals whisper first —
fur quivering with prophecy.
Dogs howl at ghosts we pretend aren’t there.
Cats dissolve into shadow
like smoke slipping through cracks in logic.

People sleep,
wrapped in their own warmth,
not knowing the storm outside
is the Earth mourning itself.

Some cry beneath the clouds.
Some grin like broken clocks.
Some dissolve —
quiet as paper in water.

They say every night ends —
but not every soul waits long enough
to see the ink fade.
Some vanish,
not because they gave up —
but because the veil closed too tight.

And no one reads
the pages they became.
Reflection:
Not every storm is outside.
Some rage quietly within, hidden behind smiles, beneath blankets, under roofs.
Veil Weather is a reminder that silence can be heavy, and that survival is not always loud.
So listen. Look deeper.
Be kind, you never know who’s still waiting for morning.
Asuka May 30
War is a ravenous shadow,
devouring fields like empty mouths,
where guilt grows thick as poison ivy—
wrapping bones in silent blame,
each step heavier with echoes of those left behind.

Loss is a choir of vanished voices,
singing through shattered breath,
their names carved into the wind,
fading like stars swallowed by the dawn.

Hunger is a serpent coiled in the belly,
licking empty caves where hope once slept,
forcing hands to feast on leaves—
bitter prayers swallowed in green desperation,
and worse, a communion of shadows devouring themselves.

War is a broken mirror cracked by famine—
reflecting faces twisted by grief,
where the hunger for survival
turns flesh to ash,
and kin to ghost.

In this feast of ruin,
the heart becomes both hunter and hunted,
feeding on memories,
starving for peace—
a feast with no end,
only the hollow taste of loss
Stanza 1:
War is described as a consuming, dark force that devours everything around it. Guilt clings to those who survive, weighing heavily on their souls as they carry the burden of loss and the memories of people left behind.


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Stanza 2:
Loss is portrayed as the haunting absence of loved ones, their voices lingering like fading songs. These memories become distant and ephemeral, like stars disappearing in the early morning light, emphasizing how war erases lives and stories.


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Stanza 3:
Hunger is a relentless, twisting pain inside the body that forces people into extreme desperation. The imagery of eating leaves and even turning on one another symbolizes the brutal and heartbreaking choices people face to survive in wartime famine.


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Stanza 4:
The broken mirror metaphor reflects the shattered human experience in war, distorted by grief and hunger. The boundaries between self and others blur as survival drives people into unimaginable acts, highlighting the devastating physical and emotional toll.


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Stanza 5:
The final stanza captures the tragic cycle of war, where the heart is both the victim and the perpetrator, feeding on memories yet starving for peace. It’s a grim feast with no real end, only the lingering bitterness of loss and despair.
Asuka Jun 17
What if you changed, like the seasons I feared?
What if love passed quicker, like weather, unclear?
What if you swayed toward a better scent in the air—
And left behind my sand art, made for you with care?

My doubts were carved by storms of the past,
Etched deep by hands that never did last.
Were you like them, too? A passing face?
But you weren’t.
Why?

Do you love me that much?

You didn’t change.
You lit your moonlight on me in the blaze of June,
Made my days bright like a midday tune.
You dusted trust across the snowfall's hush—
And somehow, that cold began to blush.

In spring, we planted memories with bare, open hands,
Shed old scars like the tide letting go of broken shells on the sand.
You whispered:
"You're the rarest scent—I breathe you in,"
"Not just a creation, you’re my one true skin."
"You’re not just art—you’re the only art I ever knew,"
"Ours was no accident—ocean currents drew me to you."
Asuka Apr 5
I sit on a stone that never softens,
but it’s not my skin that cries—
it’s the storm clawing at my hands,
the weight I cradle in silence,
pretending it’s not there
as it eats through bone.

I am drowning—
not in water,
but in quiet waves that no one sees.
They pull me under
as I learn to move
with pain pressed close—
like a mother who never meant to hurt me.

My smile stretches—
a trembling bridge of porcelain
trying to hold back a wildfire.
It cracks at the corners,
but I keep smiling,
because I forgot how not to.

Anxiety curls like smoke,
slow and poisonous in my chest,
while I stand on a tower of cards—
every decision
a fragile breath away
from ruin.

I dance on the cliff’s edge,
not out of bravery,
but because I was shoved there.
And the wind,
so cruel in its lullaby,
sings a song
that only the breaking can hear.

The alarm cries again—
not to wake me,
but to drag me
back into the fire I call routine.
Each day,
another performance
in the theatre of almost falling apart.

Still, I rise—
not because I’m strong,
but because I haven’t yet
found a soft place to fall.
Not every fall makes a sound.
Some just echo inside,quiet, constant.
This one’s for the ones still rising, even when the ground feels like it's giving up first.
Asuka Apr 21
The forest hummed its ancient lullaby,
Cold winds threading sorrow through my skin.
Its trees—bowed, yet never broken—murmured:
"It is our fate to wither or to rise,
To ache, or chase the flicker of fading stars.
But the soul—you alone may steer its course.
Be still—every forest ends in light,
The sky will one day kiss the sea,
And even the sun must drown in the ocean’s hush.
Yes, it aches. So endure—or awaken."

For not all wounds are soothed by silence,
Not all chains are meant to hold.
Some dreams slip through trembling hands,
But it is never your fault when they fall.
“Whispers Beneath the Canopy” explores the quiet resilience found in nature and within ourselves. Through the voice of a sorrowful forest, the poem reflects on suffering, the burden of endurance, and the quiet choice between holding on and rising up. Not all pain must be endured in silence, and that even in a world of fading dreams and unseen struggles, the soul remains our only compass, and it is never to blame for what slips away.
Asuka Mar 29
The wind caresses the teakwood throne,
Fingers of air trace its timeworn tone.
A vessel of echoes, silent and grand,
Holding the weight of a transient land.

Amber leaves pirouette in a gilded trance,
Draped in autumn’s fleeting dance.
Balletic whispers, ephemeral grace,
Spinning in nature’s golden embrace.

Beside it, an ancient oak confides,
Murmuring secrets the past belies.
Once adorned in a painter’s hue,
Now cloaked in time’s celestial dew.

Generations sought its patient hold—
Lovers entwined, their stories scrolled.
Children’s laughter, elders’ sighs,
Tears dissolving ‘neath somber skies.

The sun dissolves in a molten stream,
Spilling gold where shadows dream.
Draping dusk in a honeyed glow,
As twilight hums in tones so low.

A lone bird lilts a wistful tune,
Gilded by the argent moon.
Each note, a ripple in midnight’s tide,
Serenading time as it turns aside.

I gaze upon it, lost in thought,
A relic of moments destiny wrought.
One day, like it, I too shall be,
A whisper in time, untamed, yet free.

The wind still lingers, cool and wise,
Tracing tales where memory lies.
For time does not wrinkle, nor fade nor break,
It merely gilds all it dares to take—
A bench, a soul, an era’s page,
Crowned in silence, robed in vintage sage.
Edited version
Asuka Mar 30
The sky wears my grief in a veil of storm clouds,
Each thunderclap an elegy, each lightning bolt a verdict.
Even if you wash away the crimson stains,
The echoes of your sins will never fade.

Why does sorrow weave my fate into thorn-laden tapestries?
Did my cries kiss your ears, or did you weave silence as a shield?
You shattered me into constellations of agony,
Each droplet a relic of your unatoned sins.

The valleys yawn like ancient wounds,
Rivers of rubies spill through their veins,
While mountains rise as merciless titans,
Laughing at my feeble hands that cannot scale their spines.

The fire you kindled consumed more than my flesh—
Only ashes remain, whispers of a tragedy embalmed in wind.
Yet my soul lingers, a wraith woven from anguish,
Drifting between dusk and dawn, pleading for reckoning.

Lost in the labyrinth of wailing willows, I hunger for justice,
Yet solitude devours me like a specter feasting on the guilty.
You were the beast cloaked in borrowed skin,
A shadow masquerading as light—could you not be human for a breath?

Justice rides the chariot of time, relentless as the tide.
Soon, the wind shall carry the taste of your own venom,
And the stars will script your downfall in the language of the gods.
Asuka May 21
When the moon spills silver into the bruised sky,
I spill into you—mind, body, soul—
a surrender without hesitation.
I navigate your body like sacred scripture,
every curve a verse I’ve recited in whispers,
every sigh an answer I crave to relearn.

You are my favorite subject—
not meant to be mastered,
only studied with trembling devotion,
worshipped in the quiet hunger between breaths.
Asuka Jun 17
1.Your hand finds my heart,
not to claim, but to listen—
love breathes in stillness.


2.Eyes meet in silence,
the world folds into a sigh—
only we remain.


3.Touch like falling rain,
gentle, warm, and infinite—
I bloom in your arms.


4.Lips speak in pulses,
not of lust but devotion—
a fire held soft.


5.After the closeness,
I wear your gaze like a shawl—
quiet and complete.
Asuka May 15
You are bamboo—
slow to grow, strong for life.
You are jasmine—
delicate, fragrant, real.
Both are needed.

And you?
You’re here.
Still blooming.
Still meant to be.

And me?
Just a human
catching his thoughts like fireflies—
watching them glow
on paper.
Asuka Apr 30
The flowers bloom in quiet pride,
as if the earth has turned to bride.
The wind, in silken celebration,
spins the air with sweet elation.

Cherry blossoms, soft and bright,
blush like hearts in morning light.
And wisteria, draped with care,
hangs like jewels in nature’s hair.

Your hair band arcs—a tender bow,
a rainbow resting soft and low.
And in your gaze, a season sings:
a sky of light, a soul with wings.

You twinkle, graceful, wild, and free—
the very breath of spring to me.
Not just a season passing through—
you are the bloom my spirit knew.

— The End —