In the shadow of the colossal sphere, where ancient echoes sleep,
Vaeloria fades into the dark, a secret it must keep.
The watchers put their scopes away, the screens fade out to grey,
As morning calls the busy streets to meet another day.
No scholar marks the turning tide, no profit in the view,
For men forget the distant stars to chase what is brand new.
They walk through cities built of glass, untroubled, blind, and proud,
Unknowing that the selfsame veil is gathering like a cloud.
The rot that choked the Aethel Sea now crawls along their strand,
An unremembered resonance that slips across the land.
As silent as the giant orb that hid the world before,
The shadow comes to take their home, and lock them in its lore.
Through lenses cold and ground from mountain glass,
We watched the dying worlds of iron pass.
For generations, every spark we found
Was tethered to a bleeding, broken ground—
The sudden flash of silo doors undone,
The brief, horrific birthing of a sun,
Then ash that drifted like a heavy shroud
To lock a planet in a toxic cloud.
We turned our mirrors to the northern sky,
Expecting just another world to die,
To see Vaeloria’s final signature
Be etched in fire, black and premature.
We braced for the familiar, sudden glare
Of empires burning down their final air.
But what we found across the cosmic deep
Was not the final, static-riddled sleep.
The planet did not burn; it started glowing,
A quiet, silver respiration growing,
As if a willow made of starlight grew
And drank the poison till the sky turned blue.
No high radiation tore the night,
But pulses of a deep, organic light.
A lonely mind had stitched the broken spheres,
And washed away a century of fears.
We leaned into our sights, amazed to see
A world redeemed by a single tree.
The borders fell like fever from a long-tormented frame,
No steel was turned, no legions marched, no decree spoke their name.
For when the node of silver wood began its quiet rise,
The phantom lines of sovereign pride dissolved before their eyes.
The ancient ghosts of territory, of fortress, and of crest,
Like winter frost before the sun, sank deep into the breast.
The pain that once had armed the hand and built the concrete wall
Was opened to the anchor node, unmetered, shared by all.
A mother’s cry in Sector One, the drought of Sector Four,
No longer stopped at checkpoints or the barricaded door.
The collective mind, in empathy, received the bitter sting,
And wove the ache of centuries into a single string.
Where once the barbed dividers stood to guard the hollow grain,
Now surged a tide of healing hands to wash away the stain.
The map of old Vaeloria, where blood-bought nations bled,
Became a tapestry of care, by quiet mercy fed.
No citizen was left an island, stranded in their grief;
The shared scar of the species brought its ultimate relief.
The radio towers died at noon, the screens went blank and cold,
And static ceased to whisper of the empires bought and sold.
Down in the deep concrete redoubts, where millions gasped for air,
The ordinary citizens were stripped of their despair.
But in its place came something vast, a terrible, clean weight—
The absolute, unyielding hush that settled at the gate.
For thirty days no leader spoke, no siren pierced the dark,
The automated generators left a silent spark.
Men stared into their calloused hands, unable to recall
The frantic noise that used to drive their backs against the wall.
The silence was a physical thing, a pressure in the ear,
That forced the crowded bunker-rooms to face their oldest fear.
Yet by the third long, wordless week, the madness turned to rest,
As heartbeat matched to heartbeat in the quiet of the chest.
They learned to read the shifts of light, the breathing of the crowd,
And found a stranger, softer tongue where nothing was allowed.
Before the silver wood reached down to claim the planet's lease,
The bunker citizens survived the suffocating peace.
It shifts from bad to worse
Expectedly, it does
Suppose it looks quite obvious
For many, counting those
Who claim the empire is to end
Split in a thousand pieces
That’s what the masterminds intend
To do – I don’t believe this
I think what we are witnessing
Is their Golden Age
And this is just beginning
The Chapter Two, first page
We’re in the new edition
That meets time challenges
We’re actors of non-fiction
A dystopian excess
We’re stigmatized forever
But we get used to this
Just never you say never
And never comes a bliss.
In our love story of us,
Every chapter written,
Shines brighter than the
first chapter,
When we write it together.
She's not giving me the attention I want
I gave up on trying, trying to taunt
I tried and tried
To turn the tide
But she still didn't respond
Every day I wanted to bond
But sadly no, she didn't want me
Didn't have the guts to tell me who she wanted to be
Now I sob
Like a worker without a job
I cry
Because I wad too shy
My heart will be forever empty
For she was so pretty
She liked me before
But now no more
Il never be quite sure
Il die knowing I never hugged her
Now I have to go to the next chapter
Knowing I'll never live happily ever after
I asked myself when I was young,
why does a frog have a sticky tongue?
I eyed pancake lily pad beyonds
where frogs hopped maple syrup ponds.
The answer then was in my reach.
I ate my breakfast. Now, I teach.
There's a voice at the bottom of my mind,
Whispering that life is a book of pages;
That one day, my page will truly turn
Into a better chapter—it will become my turn,
And on its face, I will write: “No pain.”
The same voice tells me again:
Your page may be a laughing stock,
But yet your pain is never in vain;
For one day, you will reign with brain,
And pain will break out of your veins.
It will be your day of blessing, your day of rain,
When people and things will come your way,
And everyone will sing and sing your praise.
Alas! Your turn is truly turning—
Hold on!
“The significance of the letter "a" is that the avadhuta is free from the bondage of hopes, is pure in the beginning, middle, and end, and dwells ever in joy.”
“The syllable "va" is indicative of him by whom all desires have been renounced, whose speech is wholesome, and who dwells in the present.”
“The syllable "dhu" is a sign of him whose limbs are grey with dust, whose mind is purified, who is free of all diseases, and who is released from the practices of concentration and meditation.”
“The syllable "ta" is significant of him by whom the thought of Truth has been made steady, who is devoid of all thoughts and efforts, and who is free from ignorance and egoism.”
Avadhuta means a realised sage,
detached, vibrant and illuminated,
in whose heart the fire of lust does not rage,
who flows with ease, never agitated,
never feeling from God separated,
who lives naturally, always awake,
no practice to adopt, none to forsake.
“By my making pilgrimage to Thee Thy all-pervasiveness has been destroyed by me. With my meditation Thy transcendence of the mind has been destroyed by me. Thy transcendence of speech has been destroyed by me by my singing Thy praise. Ever forgive me these three sins.”
God-search is a paradox
In as a movement from here to there
So pause awhile in silence oh hermit and detox
That of the fact we are he who we seek become aware
We seek fullness in emptiness since heart feels incomplete
But on melding with the void wayward ego vaporises
When grazed by grace we become bliss replete
Beholding in wonder how magnetism rises
The seeker who seeks does not exist
Except for a while in form as but an interface
So simply relinquishing beliefs and ceasing to resist
Separation ends and then God holds us in close embrace
“Forever divested of all and united to the Self, the enlightened one is the All, free and devoid of truth. Thus, how can there be here life and death, and how can there be any accomplishment through meditation or lack of meditation?”
“All this is magic, like a mirage in the desert. Only the absolute Self, of indivisible and impenetrable form, exist”
Are dreams real if we dream every night,
so whether we bowl or whether we bat,
if heart be tranquil and we have clear sight,
how does it matter what pranks we are at?
Come hither ego, we’ll give you a pat
for your antics but know we are free,
unshackled from mind’s tree, dancing carefree.
“The Self is Destruction, devoid of the destroyed and undestroyed. The Self is the Auspicious Moment, devoid of the auspicious and inauspicious time. Thus, how can there be here substance and absence of substance? The Truth which is homogeneous is of the form of the sky.”
luminescence
quintessence light
essence pure love
no peaks to climb
we but mime God
His chime within
Little by little, it sounds brittle,
As it is human.
Little by little, it starts breaking,
As if it were a mirror.
Little by little, everything is smashed,
As if it were a storm.
Why is everything a clutter of emotions?
Why does everything shatter in times of misfortune?
Why are there more questions than answers?
My only solace is God,
Yet thousands stand as my opponents.
A chapter I write at my desk,
A chapter I write to solve these puzzled questions.
Ah! Is this the mystery,
Or do I wish to create history?
I know there will be an end to all my chains,
But is that end only ignorance,
Or could it be death?
“If the yogi is always related to knowledge and perception, to duality and unity, how can he be free here? How can a yogi be natural and free from attachment here? He is the enjoyer of the pure, stainless, and homogeneous Being.”
Knowledge is of objects and therefore flawed,
given that we dwell in shape shifting dreams,
being illusions created by God,
in the womb of space-time, where His will streams,
where sun’s light is refracted as moonbeams.
The source is one indivisible field
and if we be still, this truth’s not concealed.
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