We are guilty and helpless in our own sinful plight,
But God loves and saved us from the fall.
He sent His Son into a world of night,
Not to condemn, but rescue one and all.
That through Him - Prince of Peace - we might be saved,
And boldly come before the throne of grace.
No longer lost, no longer sin-enslaved,
Clothed in His righteousness, we take our place.
Because we have been pardoned, we now boldly stand,
With petitions we ask of, heard and known.
A royal priesthood, commissioned by His own hand,
A holy nation, proclaimed as His own.
We remain in Him, our hearts renewed thus -
And His living Word remains in us.
A red wine stain stays
seared into the wooden grain —
the table keeps watch
how their laughter filled the room
last time they were together
Jellybeans loiter
on the shelf in cookie jar
I wish none remained —
better emptiness than this
waiting for sweet that's hollow
Perfume on pillows,
a scent that's too strong at times
still wafts through the air —
sometimes the scent warms the room
often it dampens the mood
Burn marks scar the trays
where scones were baked lovingly
await scraper's blade —
to erase fond memories
of toppings with jam and cream
Much-loved song lies poised
in the player seldom used
my choice, not hers now —
ready to play her music
to ignite the glow we shared
No flowers drying
only books she left behind —
in the bookcases
that still cups the curve of hands
that held them by candlelight
Mailbox yawns empty
no letters, no messages
no texts, likes on screens —
she deleted her accounts
no one home, got no reply
So much left to clean
to pack, stack, clean and carry
yet I leave it still —
for the mess is a mirror
that keeps her ghost in the room
a rotten tree sprouts green
looking far more alive than it has ever been
filled with life it shielded itself from before
seeming it's most beautiful
whilst slowly being eaten alive
the rot becomes known
and now,
feeling most useless, it is most useful
to all, to all
piece by piece
it's torn apart
into a home
by all, for all
why don't they see
this too is temporary
traded for with permanence
is forever always stopped by someone else?
does anybody remember the seed?
T-he
H-eart
E-mbraces
A-ll
M-emories
A-bout
R-emembered
I-mages
A-s
L-ove
C-ontinuously
A-dorns
N-ostalgic
T-imelines
A-nd
R-ewinded
A-nnals
©bfa062925
Monocrostic (Birthday of Thea Mari S. Alcantara)
T-ill
I-nspiration
N-aturally
L-asts
A-mid
U-nspoken
R-esignation
I-t
O-vercomes
©bfa061825
Monocrostic (Birthday of Tin Laurio)
On Sky shielded palm,
When sun couldn't make rain calm...
Nothing remains so.
At Moon subtle cheek,
When stars wouldn't look that weak,
Nothing remains so.
Over running days...
When strength couldn't make nice hays,
Nothing so remains.
Behind crawling nights...
When nerves wouldn't silent frights,
Nothing so remains.
Around oily shrine...
When deities couldn't dare dine,
So remains nothing.
Far burnt sacrifice-
Baal failed; Elijah suffice,
So remains nothing.
Like ...
Light, In the silence of an empty night
Shines nothing, finds no fault or expose shrines...
Rather enhance fear to ignite lone fright,
Far away ever experienced designs.
Its rays can't burn waiting sacrifices;
Neither could its whisper silent dark sky.
M-emories
A-lways
E-mbrace
M-an's
E-motional
L-ife
I-n
T-ime,
A-nd
N-ever
T-o
E-vaporate
©bfa051625
Monocrostic (Birthday of Mae Melitante)
I’ve kept the bone-ash circle open—
chalked in wax traced from your last reply,
the one you coughed out sideways
between a mirror and an echo,
Just to reiterate, it read.
(Though you’ve unsent it now—
the smoke still mouths it back.)
The salt forgets which door to guard,
whether you're enemy or friend.
My tea leaves knot themselves
into nooses. The knife won’t keep
its edge unless I say your name
with my mouth full of soot. You know
who you are.
We only spoke three times—
I still remember your laugh.
I burned your coat—
the one already nicked at the cuff,
lined with lint and one of my hours.
The smoke limped east,
then circled back.
I still leave the latch loose.
Not for you—
just in case
some ghost with your gait
remembers how
my spine once knocked
like a drum left running.
D-elicate
A-roma
I-s
S-ubtly
Y-ielding
B-right
O-utlooks,
S-till
Q-uiet
U-nderstanding
I-n
L-ife
L-ets
O-ptimism
S-tay
©bfa042525
Monocrostic (Birthday of Daisy D. Bosquillos)
Look what we've done
But why did you?
Look, we've done it
But should we have?
Why this first?
To be more heard.
Just because we could?
We'll describe.
So what about evolution?
What about it?
Is it not the rule?
Who’s to say?
Was it necessary?
We’ll justify it.
But in the silence
The howl remains.
People ask
as they wonder,
what holds
you? Is it
fear? Is it
doubt? Is it
distrust? or is it
all or
neither?
A flower is brought
into this world amidst
chaos
unknowingly
what it may
encounter yet
it remains
pure.
Confined by
discourtesy
trickled by
irregularities
lured by
fallacies yet
stands still as
nature's
gift
as it
shimmers
brightly.
Love is not a lonely island—
not the silence between two chairs,
but the song sung in unison
across a shared table.
It is celebration,
not separation;
a dance where both souls
move in rhythm,
not apart but entwined.
We know love
because God did not shout
from across eternity—
He came close,
whispering, I am with you always.
Not once.
Always.
Presence,
not absence.
Bridges,
not walls.
Love builds roads
where feet can meet,
hands can hold,
and voices can linger.
But where silence reigns—
where hearts retreat behind fences
of conflict, confusion,
chaos, and cutting off—
even divine intention
is left waiting
at locked gates.
True love speaks,
stays,
shares,
and settles.
It doesn't run
at the first crack in the glass—
it mends,
because communion
was always greater
than convenience.
Where there is love,
there is the will
to be with,
to be known,
to be kept—
and to keep.
I crossed the archives as one walks through a field of ruins.
Decrees were bones, dogmas were nails.
Kings signed treaties in ink darker than darkness, a pact forged in daggers.
Papal bulls oozed blood beneath God's varnish.
Codes etched the systematic animalization into stone.
They legislated hell, administered suffering, theorized the slaughterhouse.
Even science became an executioner,
draping contempt in formulas and measured skulls.
I didn’t read history,
I breathed it,
its ashes glued to my lungs,
its screams wedged in the margins.
They crucified continents for their gems,
their plantations, their ores, and their silences.
They told me: progress.
But I saw boots pressed to throats.
They told me: forget.
But the graves still speak.
They told me: democracy.
I saw tanks circling the ballot boxes.
And you, West, with your carnivorous grin,
you demand forgiveness without returning the bones.
You scream values with your pockets full of plunder.
You dress up your hunger as mission.
You baptize your rape as liberation.
You persist, you insist, you gorge yourself.
But our memories are neither dead nor tame.
They sharpen.
You ask what remains after emotions have flowed like sand through an hourglass?
Just a pair of eyes that now look only to see,
not to feel, not to remember the echo of yesterday,
without a trace of the past, without the outline of the future, just the suspended moment.
A tongue dried of words, not of silence, but of the absence of anything left to say,
a void where once flowed stories and unknown whispers.
A heart that once raced with thoughts, sometimes too fast, sometimes painfully slow,
now beats in a monotonous rhythm, like a tired clock, not to feel, but to survive,
a mechanism silently fulfilling its routine, without the passion that once defined it.
And the soul? Perhaps it's locked away somewhere, though the key still rests in my hand,
but the cage has become a comfortable refuge, for what was needed
to live beyond it... no longer exists now.
A space where once dreams danced freely, now only shadows fall,
for all that was once alive and vibrant has retreated into the silent depths of being,
leaving behind only a long-forgotten melody that reverberates in the silence of the heart.
You died.
And nothing happened.
No whisper.
No light.
No shift in the air.
Only the room—
exactly as it was,
minus you.
I stood there,
expecting something.
A crack in the fabric.
A sign.
A sound.
Anything.
But all I found
was stillness
carrying on
without effort,
without care.
They spoke your name
as if it held weight.
But even that faded
before the echo could finish.
No afterlife.
No message.
No you.
Just a body
emptied
and a silence
that doesn’t remember
what it’s missing.
Grief isn’t proof of love.
It’s the body glitching,
trying to react
to an absence
too complete to comprehend.
You are gone.
And the world
never noticed.
And soon,
so will I.
So will all of us.
Forgotten,
unmarked,
folded back into nothing.
Exactly where we came from.
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