Category: Poetry
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I drink your sorrow, wear your dread, I mock the tear you try to hide. I know the words you leave unsaid, The brittle fortress of your pride. But all this feeling, fierce and true, Can never break my surface through.
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The house stood stark, a place of fear, Where young years echoed shouts I’d hear. My forts arose, in leafy space, A hidden haven, a safe place. For in the wild, I learned to be, The architect of my own decree.
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The man’s pinky finger bore a secret universe. Encased in polished black, the ring’s stone was a fragment of the cosmos, a piece of the night sky, trapped and held forever still. Within its obsidian depths, echoes of vanished starlight swirled, a silent testament to galaxies once free, now held captive on a mortal hand.
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In a home where safety was a fleeting concept, I found a purpose in a broken-winged dove. The garage became our sanctuary. While my world outside was loud and unpredictable, in there, I was a healer. He gave me a quiet, predictable peace, showing me that true strength isn’t about weathering a storm, but about…
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When history is a forgotten art, And all that’s made has come undone, You’ll find the echo of my beating heart Woven in with oblivion.
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These scars that map my hide, Tell tales of tooth and claw, The strength I hold inside, The keeper of the law.
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It’s like the ghost of a tomorrow, A joy you didn’t get to borrow. A phantom ache for a life half-glimpsed, A sentence that you left unlimpsed. The muscle memory of a choice You didn’t make, that has no voice.