English
Walls do not stand, they grow. They climb the sky on vines of shadow and I sink. What light exists is a pinprick in a shroud, a lie told to the lost. I am not lost. I am the shroud. This darkness is not a place. It is a secretion,
English
Not a sea, but Ecstasy in motion, A drowning union, a sacred ocean. Soul not lost, but Annihilated in Light, Day and night vanish in that Sight. It swallows thorns, turns dust to pearls, Shatters the self, unfurls and hurls Every “I” and “you” from its shore, What was two
English
Each to their own orbit, bound, Each to their own center, wound. Each in their own sphere, confined, Each in their own spin, defined.
Essay
I have spent ages, I have lost myself. So many roads grew tired, so many footprints erased, I disappeared down your paths, completely amazed. By Time’s own hands, so many chains I broke, Yet left my own soul weeping, my own spirit bespoke. I was a traveler who grew
English
With calloused hands, gloved in torn fate, Lips sealed shut, painted in silence’s weight, Eyes turned to stone beneath shattered dreams, A soul weathered thin, a heart stripped clean. Draped in the ruins of this body’s shell, I wear a smile too wide to tell. A mask stretched