Reflections and realities

The Wise Have no business With the passions of children. But a wilderness Blooms— Nonetheless.

Never imagined Gold in silver years, Or silver and golden tears, After lives long lived, When one should sit and ponder.

Urges to sail away Toward shores of new horizons, Unbound by weight of time, To shed the baggage carried— And the castles time has built.

Save for these luminous souls, Forged into our being— The gravity of a world. Desperate for perfection, Or simply to live in balance.

Passions can only be Happily never after. As dawn drifts into dusk— And I wonder How many times we’ll meet again Before our sun sets.

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#poetry #confession #osxs

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003 | but i am not clay

i've always been “the soft one” and i tried to shapeshift this softness into whatever was needed into whatever i assumed would be liked best

when you do that for a long time for whatever reason – for me it was survival - you forget who you truly are

you unlearn what you really want what you need what would be fun to have or think or say or do

you just fill the molds prepared by others and if you don't fit, well squeeze a bit harder maybe cut a piece off yourself here and there

but there will be a time a day, a moment, a year maybe within which you realize no this isn't who i am

you will see the scars where you cut off parts of yourself and you will see the bruises from squeezing into spaces that were never meant for you

that is the time where you have to decide is it still worth it do i still need to do this or am i ready to leave it all behind

to step away from the molds to let myself become something else to see what shape i take when i'm not forced to fit in

#poetry #fortheghostsicarry

Look! These are just the fringes of his ways; Only a faint whisper has been heard of him!

Last night, as we crossed the threshold of dusk, a thunderhead rose— thirty thousand feet of sky-clad majesty, a colossus of cloud and light.

So vast its motion looked still. It waited. A sentinel of vapor, crowned in flashes of unseen fire, looming above our journey like a god unspoken.

The world bent beneath its gaze— mountains bowed, cities dimmed, our destination cowered in its shadow.

Weight—more than all elephants ever dreamed by earth— a Kilimanjaro of pachyderms, silent and unshakeable.

And yet, this was merely an afterthought— a side-glance of the Maker, Jehovah, whose breath begets fractals, whose fingers write tessellations in lightning and chemistry, in the tongue of physics and fire.

Who are we— dustlings in chariots of steel— that He should remember us?

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#poetry #travel

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002 | in my goo era

did you know caterpillars basically dissolve to become a butterfly.

but a brimstone, a swallowtail, a map caterpillar - they already are a brimstone, a swallowtail, a map butterfly.

the goo inside the chrysalis is still a brimstone, a swallowtail, a map.

becoming is not pretty; it's cruel and painful and scary.

but during all this time, no matter the state, i am still me, becoming.

#poetry #fortheghostsicarry #whattheflowersknow