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She knew you were there,
in the hush between breaths,
in the flicker of light
where silence rests.
She felt you near
though you said no word
your presence louder
than any voice she heard

I wait for words in silence deep,
As you await the sun’s last sweep.
Night returns with muted grace,
But still, the storm sits on your face.

They called it harmony,
the way the wind met the trees,
how laughter echoed through the leaves,
and silence danced between the seas.

They called it peace,
not in the stillness,
but in the way all things moved
without resistance.

One Box with a Hundred Stories

It isn’t like a box of chocolates.
Sweetness fades, this doesn’t.

Each story inside hums quietly
a whisper of what was lost,
a sigh of what never came.

The corner of the world where everything feels right

Slice girl, with blade for grace,
She carves her path, leaves no trace.
Not made for soft or subtle hue,
She cuts through lies and sees what’s true.

There is life
black fades, white slips,
bright burns out,
dark dips

and still,
something moves,
soft and wild,
undefined.

left behind:
the edges.
what remains:
the rise.

Swinging sun
The swinging sun arcs low and wide,
a golden pendulum in the sky.
It sways with time, both fierce and slow,
brushing fields in amber glow.

Also a little light won't hurt as long as it doesn't happen often and doesn't last long.

Don’t let me down,
not now, not here,
when all I’ve left
is this small, trembling
fear.

No glance too deep,
no pause too long,
their hearts beat to noise,
not to the song.

This is a song from an opera.