Poem Is a Verb
Strike flint to flame, let the lines take flight,
They bite at the dark, they shoulder the light;
No throne for the poem, no chair for its nerve—
It walks till it bleeds, for a poem’s a verb.
......
In the Mirror
♡
In the mirror’s dim curve, a tale unfolds—
Crow’s feet stretch outward, times of glee retold.
Faint grooves carved by sleepless nights and sun,
Each mark a trace of battles lost and won.
Liver spots flicker like lanterns on skin,
Moments of joy, where sorrow runs thin.
......
“uncored”
a poem collapses language into feeling.
connection isn’t absent-it’s shattered.
grief lives in the space where meaning fails.
Love, once central, now spirals-
fragmented, erotic, falling inward.
It doesn’t speak. It disintegrates.
......
Poem Is a Verb
Strike flint to flame, let the lines take flight,
They bite at the dark, they shoulder the light;
No throne for the poem, no chair for its nerve—
It walks till it bleeds, for a poem’s a verb.
......
“uncored”
a poem collapses language into feeling.
connection isn’t absent-it’s shattered.
grief lives in the space where meaning fails.
Love, once central, now spirals-
fragmented, erotic, falling inward.
It doesn’t speak. It disintegrates.
......
In the Mirror
♡
In the mirror’s dim curve, a tale unfolds—
Crow’s feet stretch outward, times of glee retold.
Faint grooves carved by sleepless nights and sun,
Each mark a trace of battles lost and won.
Liver spots flicker like lanterns on skin,
Moments of joy, where sorrow runs thin.
......