You Are Loved
You are loved, not as a fragile thing that might be lost, not as a moment that arrives and fades,but as the ocean is held by its own depth, as light moves unbidden through the
Category: Poems
Being In Love (the poem)
Time dissolves in the hush of that first encounter,a single pivot of vision in which every hue of longingcoalesces into one unbidden moment of recognition,and the heart becomes bound to its celestial counterpart. All lesser
You Were Born with Wings
You were born with wings,etched in the quiet script of stars,a secret geometry hidden in your breath.Yet you crawl, earthbound,tethered to the hum of certainty,your shadow longing for skies unseen. The ground is soft, familiar,its
To Deep Sleep, the Quiet Return
Beneath the veil of restless thought,Where dreams persist, yet truth is not,There lies a realm beyond the stream,No shadowed tale, no fleeting dream. Here, the self dissolves away,No night, no dawn, no break of day.The
Separation Anxiety
Separation Anxiety It is the silence of absence that ripples most profoundly,an aching geometry of stillness where once a voice lingered.In the hollow spaces between breaths, the memory of togethernessbecomes an unbearable symmetry, mirrored but
Separation Anxiety
In the stillness between breaths, there is no boundary, no edge I can grasp, only the eternal hum of an unbroken unity that is neither here nor there, neither this nor that. The nature of
The Oneness
The Oneness (Rewoven) I stand in no place, before no veil, for “standing,” too, is a fiction stitched by sequence—and “before” suggests a border, a watcher, a thing to cross.But in the Oneness, there is
The Cry of the Divine
To be separate is to carry the echo of a trillion years of oneness,a breathless pause between what was and what will always be.You, a thread pulled gently from eternity, trembling, distinct,standing alone in the
The Beauty in the Ordinary
There is a beauty in the ordinary,in the mundane, in the unnoticed—a puddle reflecting the sky,the creak of a floorboard,the quiet ticking of a clock.All of it, alive.All of it, love. The wind presses against
The Weight of Witness
The love of a mother—vast, silent, unyielding—lives most profoundly in the instant of its rupture,when the hawk, wings arched against the pale light,descends with precision, claws curved toward the inevitable.There is no time for words,