Who killed the MC?
There he lay, splayed on the street
Chalk outlined mic and fist
A broken clock reads four past nine
Tatters of a golden thread left at the scene
Who gained from his silence?
Streets alive with revelation
Anarchic fire in the air
They’re coming for us with their rhymes
Gentlemen this isn’t what we had in mind
What will happen now he’s dead?
Yacht-and-champagne fantasies
Cheap factory beats repeat repeat
A few mad prophets rise and fade
Suburbia falls back to sleep
Who killed the MC?
A hot tub forged conspiracy
June 23, 2025
She walks in rooms where silence hides it face,
Not loud, but warm-a hush, a golden thread.
She touches cracks that time cannot Lace,
And brings back truths that long ago were dead.
She melts the ices that wraps around the Insides,
And stands where fear and shadow still reside.
A flicker dressed in silver–soft she Greets,
No sword, no Storm , just bare and steady beats.
She doesn't run, she doesn't Harbor pride–
She only stays to Tell what pain denied.
~hira~
It begins with a sky-split cry—
a blade of wind slicing the stillness,
gulls scattering like torn pages
as the sea holds its breath.
Then comes the first thunderstroke,
not from clouds, but from below—
the ocean remembering its anger.
The sea begins to speak in tongues—
lightning dances across the waves.
The ocean surges, climbs the wind,
rising in spiraled towers of spray—
a mind awakening, immense and wild.
The wind and sea lock arms and spin—
a wild, ecstatic pas de deux.
Every crest collides with thunder,
every trough inhales the sky.
The air is stitched with broken wings,
a fugue of fury, flawless, divine.
The storm forgets its name—
its fury slackens into sighs.
Waves collapse with whispered awe,
and the wild wind of prophecy,
wanders now in broken circles.
Salt mist weeps from sky to sea.
A golden thread divides the clouds—
light returns on cautious feet.
The sea lies spent but still it stirs,
gathers fragments of the sky
and lays them gently on its swells,
as if remembering how to sing.
like
shadows in
a slow-turning
waltz, they drift—
soft, unsummoned sighs
from corners of the mind
where dust forgets to settle,
and yesterday pirouettes silently.
dreams once bright now fade, tulle
trailing in twilight, ankles kissed by
cobwebs of sleep. Each step unwinds
the golden thread of almost-memory,
echoing rhythms never quite born,
never quite gone. They circle,
spiral, shimmer, vanish—
the dance of
forgotten
dreams.
A cascade, shimmering, of rivulets that undulate,
Metaphor thalassic, richly blending at the pate.
Each silhouette of vitality, speaking with gentle weight,
On shoulders resting, an adornment, delicate.
Where inky depths meet sun-kissed golden thread,
Fair skin and russet lips, a harmony well-bred.
On sloping lids, where emerald hues are spread,
Completing thus, a visage subtly, richly said.
Every filament, a void of deepest night,
Pupils widen, mirroring its stark, endless plight.
Heartstrings tugged by fur of shadowed fall,
Where a blue throb pulses, binding all.
When twilight spills its ink across the skies,
And silence tiptoes through the weary trees,
The stars unveil their secrets in disguise,
Whispered in hush beneath the evening breeze.
The day’s last breath clings gently to the air,
A golden thread unspooled from sunlit loom,
While night ascends the throne with solemn flair,
And bathes the world in velvet’s soft perfume.
Yet in the hush, the heart begins to roam—
Recalling touch and voices lost in mist,
Each memory a light that calls it home,
A ghost of warmth the darkness can't resist.
Though night may fall and shadows hold their sway,
Hope flickers still, awaiting break of day.
Being alone is an amethyst art
Gift to the soul searching dark
Mahogany moments
Shaping reality despite chaos or peace
Pearl perception of reality red from
blood of dead dreams
that will rise like a purple phoenix
inside blue breast
Walking in spirit with ancient ancestors
yet alone in the Streets of solitude
Fire in eyes
forgiving the lies
of whimsical fairy tales
That once spun hope
Like a golden thread
Around amber head
Ideals that float
like glowing halo
Keeping character afloat
Despite a sinking black hole
Left in the street to trap
Those who seem to nap
Sleep walking on the path
Sleeping Beauty is an example
Fairytale of slumber sampled
By a cherry kiss on lips
Is to die for or to live
If Prince never comes
what gives
rainbows inside to exist
Whether the field of forgiveness has been watered or not
Be the rose that grows
Through concrete streets with heart
Determined to thrive despite odds
With a scent of salvation a street soldier for God
In the beginning, a tale so sweet,
A love blossomed, oh, what a treat.
He painted dreams, of us together,
Promises made, to last forever.
His words, they wove a golden thread,
In his embrace, I found solace, not dread.
But as time passed, his touch grew cold,
His love, once fiery, now timid and old.
I chased his love, like a fleeting dream,
But in his eyes, no love did gleam.
He held me close, yet kept me at bay,
His silence spoke, of love's decay.
A friend he became, in times of need,
Embracing my heart, with care and heed.
Yet beneath the surface, a truth did lie,
His love, a mirage, bidding goodbye.
Now tired of chasing, love's fading flame,
I sense the embers, whispering my name.
For in his silence, I find my release,
To let go of love, and find my peace.
By: Innantia Magcanya
If I should wake to live another day
my soul would surely burst with boundless joy.
On pious knee I would fervently pray,
repentant soul would actively deploy.
A full day of blessèd atonement wide,
a soul on mission to pay its penance.
Rapidly strolling with refreshing stride,
repentance on recent fair countenance.
A purposeful action of ascesis,
my heart would be uplifted from its shame.
A length of golden thread from Lachesis
exonerating my well-deserved blame.
Freed from infernal Hell I gladly die,
blissful smile as my soul ascends the sky.
I have a thought I'd like to share and was wondering if you'd read
Because we all have much in common as you will come to see ....
"Out of our imperfections our pains and tribulations
Moments of clarification in the silver that lines our clouds Happy times and small celebrations are to be found
We are all stitched together with a golden thread of hope
Within the tapestry of life where our story is sewn
And folklore born O ye olde word English told
From our roots, we recover and discover horizons new
Beginnings are a good reason to be
The Bee Happy
Be you.
Gold is such an awesome word
many seek it for all their days
but it eludes the vast majority
no matter their efforts it stays
Poetically with your pen in hand
you ponder many a thought
so to bring forth insightful lines
such a gift can't be bought
In the scriptures a class writer
one such King David was so
the Psalms were his delight
prophetical his words high or low
Being a Scot read much of Burns
a famous bard he did forthtell
packed so much in his short life
so inspirationally rings a bell
Looking at life's direction
finding your golden thread
that's your goal at the end
pen in hand this you were bred
(This piece was written based on
the poem "Nothing Gold Can Stay"
BY ROBERT FROST)
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
I care, I search in the depths of my heart,
A higher power that will guide me in every start.
God the loving Father, the nourisher of life,
Helps me tide over and conquer every strife.
I search for love’s golden thread connecting one and all,
Uniting nations and people as a single whole.
I search for God’s benevolence and beauty everywhere.
Wish to astound people by showing that I do care.
I search for the light of wisdom’s warm embrace,
So that from my life, darkness I can displace.
With wisdom as an abiding and bosom friend,
I know, the journey through life is easier to mend.
I search for a fresh dawn and a beauteous setting sun,
And peaceful sleep when my task for the day is done.
Sitka’s vibrant euphonious voice,
as alluring as the violin tune,
the musical trail to beauty symphony
of the country north to the future.
Nature there blooms like a flower,
the sunset splendor sequestered.
The twilight rays of golden thread,
the auric frill between trees,
emerald tapestry weaved in Totem Park.
The gilded splash of the ripple rows
on the jade frame of Beaver lake,
the sapphire sky’s mirror in glacial vale.
Mount Edgecumbe, the dormant volcano,
the standing sentinel in lavish landscape
with crimson crown on snow-clad cone.
The northern lights of surreal Sitka dusk,
the living paint on kaleidoscopic canvas,
the captured amazing scene awfully wonderful.
___________
June 5, 2023
The moon was peeking through the naked trees
The breeze that blew that day had gone to bed
A lonely nightingale perched overhead
Harassed the silence with his sad reprise
The creaking porch swing's old familiar tune
No fitting lyrics could I ever write
To my sweet love on this warm firefly night
The melancholic song I'd never croon
Ten trillion stars, a shimmering chemise
Which cloaked the sky in sparkles green and red
Connected by the rays of golden thread
How could one tire, admiring nights like these?
Upon magnolia trees, blossoms were strewn
The nightingale heard his call and took flight
I might sit here until the morning light
Like days of old, these nights would make us swoon
The moon was peeking through the naked trees
The breeze that blew that day had gone to bed
A lonely nightingale perched overhead
Harassed the silence with his sad reprise
The creaking porch swing's old familiar tune
No fitting lyrics could I ever write
To my sweet love on this warm firefly night
The melancholic song I'd never croon
Ten trillion stars, a shimmering chemise
Which cloaked the sky in sparkles green and red
Connected by the rays of golden thread
How could one tire, admiring nights like these?
Upon magnolia trees, blossoms were strewn
The nightingale heard her call and took flight
I might sit here until the morning light
Like days of old, these nights would make us swoon
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