The devil a master
at quoting scripture
suited to his purpose
Words conscripted most Divine
to dance
around his fire
Forked tongue in hand
he reprimands
with passages inflamed
To burn the lives
and damn the souls
— of those his farce conspires
(Dreamsleep: July, 2026)
For all the lame reasons
I could never be there
Treasured moments
when I stayed away
For all those times
excuses were made
And for whose faults
I’m justly blamed
I’d change them all
in my twilight
To spend my time
making amends
But sadly life gives us
only one chance
To make the right choices
to love and befriend
These scars that I carry
the weight I must bear
For my sins of omission
their punishment fair
As now I sit lonely
away from the fire
Avoiding all mirrors
— where memory conspires
(The New Room: June, 2026)
The first one seemed so neat and cool and got you on your way.
The second came too soon and still felt like your right of way.
The third revealed a subtle shift in where your priorities lay.
The fourth had lost the party noise and started making you pay.
The fifth saw you turn all the stress upon yourself at the close of day.
The sixth delivered what you’d hoped for, but in a different way.
Then you began to wonder if somehow you’d lost your way.
The younger ones had fresher dreams and passed their time another way.
Now it takes twice the effort just to keep their pace at bay,
And your own mind conspires against you more with every day.
After thirty-five years you look back and see you’re travelling a different way.
All that time pursuing success in your own peculiar way.
So you step aside from the race, knowing that in a few weeks you’ll be forgotten and replaced anyway
O wretched fate, that smites his brow with thunder in the trembling boughs.
The very sun doth pierce his skull; each leaf conspires with whispered woes.
“Alas, poor me,” he cries, “I knew me well”—then swoons upon the grass.
If I crash-out of this med-school thing, I hope it’s a gentle spiral.
Upon a trembling wire I make my stand,
a Flying Wallenda, knowing no other life.
A deep and quiet moonlight, well flatters the mind's labour.
So scholars' efforts are commonly crowned in sleepless industry.
Coincidentally, those same treacherous moonbeams
dubble-dip as lover's ambiance.
Those that study flesh, may find their own poorly mastered,
as it conspires - in want - and distracts with fancies ill-timed
- as if desires were somehow exam-unaware.
Ambition ties me, with strings, to ever-urgent examinations,
while desire, that merry thief, giddily unlaces me.
Between love and ambition, I dance a careful step,
half-architect and half-willing fool.
Should I fall - as other highwire walkers have,
let it be said that I fell with blushing grace
- not by neglect, or overzealous reach,
but by the tragedy of earnest and impatient love.
Exams start in 2 hours. It’s hell week. Wish me luck!
.
.
A song for this:
Tiger, my friend by psapp
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The attic hums with ghosts of feet,
a trail of soft, lost whispers so sweet
The wallpaper peels like ancient skin,
revealing maps where time has been.
A teacup left in midnight’s grip,
still waiting—as if just from the lip
of someone who turned out the light
and stepped into the sheer of night.
The floorboards creak a coded name,
the dust conspires to hide the blame.
No clock ticks here, yet shadows climb
the stairs, in sync with stolen time.
And if you listen—really strain~
you’ll hear the house breathe once again:
a sigh that bends the candle’s glow
toward the door left long ago.
Some say it’s wind. I know it’s more.
The latch still waits. The hinge still mourns.
a related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_stranger_in_the_box_13607
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hallway hums with ghosts of feet,
a trail of soft, lost whispers so sweet
The wallpaper peels like ancient skin,
revealing maps where time has been.
A teacup left in midnight’s grip,
still warm—as if just from the lip
of someone who turned out the light
and stepped into the sheer of night.
The floorboards creak a coded name,
the dust conspires to hide the blame.
No clock ticks here, yet shadows climb
the stairs, in sync with stolen time.
And if you listen—really strain—
you’ll hear the house breathe once again:
a sigh that bends the candle’s glow
toward the door left long ago.
Some say it’s wind. I know it’s more.
The latch still waits. The hinge still mourns.
In shadows where our whispers play,
Two hearts entwined in soft ballet,
Forbidden dreams in moonlight gleam,
Each stolen glance, a secret scheme,
Desire ignites the hidden spark,
A bond that blooms in endless dark,
Yet fate conspires to keep us far,
And yet here we are.
Their faces ‘don’t fit’
So we can’t put it on the news
- we don’t want to upset the likes
Of Benjamin Netanyahu
What will we tell our children ?
How many blind eyes will the world turn?
The world just stood and watched
As Gaza was bombed , flattened and burned
Sleep soundly Netanyahu
Tucked up in your comfy bed
But soon the Palestinian deaths you caused
Will wreak havoc in your head
May the sounds of thousands of screaming , dying children
Play constantly in your ears
May the souls of all you have killed
Act out on all your fears
As our governments conspires
to protect this war criminal
The rest of the world will take action
And condemn him to eternal hell
“If you are the smartest person in the room,
then you are in the wrong room.”
- Quote by Confucius
--------------------------------------------------
Jealousy
Conspires
Envy
Boils
Pride
Blinds
Silence
Suffers
Faith
Heals
Humility
Wins
He says we're just friends,
But if I don’t Talk for a single day,
He grows restless,
searching for my voice or my text.
When I rest my head upon his shoulder,
His hand finds my cheek, gentle and caring,
—As if protecting something precious.
When he takes my hand in his,
It feels like an unspoken promise,
—A quiet vow lingering between our fingers.
As we walk together, the world slows down,
And the destination seems far away,
As if time itself wears a crown.
—As if Universe itself conspires to keep us near.
He says we’re just friends,
But sometimes, it feels like more.
It feels like he loves me—not as a friend,
But as a man loves a woman, deeply, wholly.
Yet still, he says we’re just friends...
—Beloved
—And I wonder—does his heart whisper differently?
How elegant of the rain
Of its smells and transparency
Of its sounds rhymed spring
Even the wind conspires
Of absence to urge
Nor others for disturbance
The trees stand over there quietly
And the people are driving slowly
Or walking carefully
Even birds are somewhere hiding
To offer the moment to the rain
Sounds as a clock ticking
By the windows, we are
And counting for the ticking
And wondering how many Tickles
To lure the sun smiling at us
The dream that a dreamer dreams is his whim
as the dreamer the one he dreamed is him
both the hero and the rival in a play
he can break the trance even overly grim.
Manifestation of our suppressed desires
the soul to a realm secretly aspires
be it an illusion or a fantasy
when the mind with the spirit conspires.
Illusion is a reality that’ll never be
illusion will always an illusion be
dream can manifest it into reality
and lets us our quiescent thoughts to see.
Unexpectedly
inspired by a Péladan jeremiad,
the red moon laughs at the sea
and the possum-ness of the possum;
Churlish blood rays remain
a never never world utterance of the jungle,
Every lupercalian dragonfly
conspires with brooding
red hibiscus flowers;
On a night like this,
all creation winces and endures
before melting into a black water mirage
of broken feverish brush strokes
and fruit bats in a mangrove swamp.
Though each mind is a jungle of thoughts,
It’s a sanctuary where ideas are sought.
Fertile tender brains go haywire,
With negative creativity the media conspires.
Navigating today’s youth is a terrain to conquer,
Rampant malicious acts uncover the dysfunctionality that prospers.
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