I met her in the dark, her breath like stone,
A predator carved from some vast unknown.
Her gaze a weight, a grave of quiet fire,
Unchained from what the mortal soul could own.
There are no pacts where lions tread the dust,
Their truth is claw and silence, raw and just.
Yet still, I stand, a fool before the shrine,
My blood a whisper, offering ash and trust.
Each word she gives is fanged, with edges sharp,
Her laughter hums, a brutal, hollow harp.
The ache inside me folds beneath her grin,
As though her teeth could sever guilt and harp.
No common bond; no mortal tie can weave
This force of ruin clutching hearts to cleave.
Still, from her weight, I breathe an alien calm,
A portrait burned in charcoal, fierce to leave.
Her truth is art, the savage kind, unbound.
I wear its scars, a silent battleground.
No treaties hold, no hand can tame her core,
Yet in her chaos, I find something profound.
There are no pacts where men and lions meet,
Our truths collide, a thrum, a lethal beat.
In mirrored fangs, I howl my darkest self,
And let her teeth consume my soul, complete.
You are the beat of my heart
The thrum in my bones
The light in my soul
You make me feel my best,
And my worst
- The puppeteer at the end of my strings.
You are always so out of reach
One step ahead
A ghost
A ghoul
A dream
You are no more than a cloud in a breeze
A leaf getting swept downstream
- The end of a rainbow.
You live in my heart
And haunt my dreams
You hide in my memories
I am always longing for your touch
To feel your hand in mine
lips against mine
I hope that someday
I will be the beat of your heart
The thrum in your bones
The light in your soul
I hope that someday
I will be your always
The inward journey is not a path
but a pulse~
a quiet thrum beneath the ribs
that asks me to follow
without promising arrival.
It begins in the soft collapse
of outward noise,
in the moment the world’s demands
fall away like dust
from a long-closed book.
I walk without moving,
descending through layers
of my own unspoken history~
the rooms I locked,
the names I whispered,
the truths I folded
into the smallest corners
of my breath.
Here, memory becomes terrain.
Regret becomes weather.
Desire becomes a compass
that points not north
but inward,
toward the place
where my oldest questions
still glow.
And standing in that small room of light,
its lone ember breathing softly,
I realize the inward journey
is a homecoming~
a gentle turning toward
the oldest version of myself,
the one that never left.
trapped in Your pulse
I feel the quiet trembling
of something sacred~
a soft, soulful thrum
where the Holy Spirit
moves like breath
through my heart’s
hidden chambers.
I taste Your truth
in the silver hush
between heartbeats,
a sweetness rising
like dawn-light
on the rim of the soul~
God whispering
in the language of stillness.
I dwell in that stillness~
a place where orchids dream~
the air glows faintly,
petals holding
their own small prayers.
In that pale radiance
I pause sensing the nearness
of the One
who shaped my soul.
Buzzing brilliance, I leisurely recline.
And hold the dense receivers to my ear
Listening for a sign from feeble shine,
The whispers from a dusty atmosphere.
The hiss of static fills the ether-space
A crash of numbing waves upon the shore
Of numbers lost in white noise's warm embrace,
Drowning into silence forevermore.
Until that steadily increasing thrum,
Beating quiet against the void of space,
Its tender percussion a rising drum,
And grants an ace, a lonely speck or trace.
Years of white noise may blind the sky-blue sea,
But now the cosmos calls, at last, to me.
Echoes of traditions deep
forged in sweat and blood
Sounds of cannons booming weep
o’er tattered fields of mud
Freedom’s sons claim sacred ground
where horses’ hooves cry numb
Ancient winds still bear the tune
plaintive shriek of fife and thrum
In the hushed thrum
between first light
the first bird
the first mist's
touché touch on cheek
the world pauses
to catch its breath
to sigh softly—
like a mother at
her babe's first cry.
I didn’t plant that garden tree
But thinking, I just let it be
I knew I should have cut it out
But felt within to let it sprout
And so, as seasons came and went
I pruned this tree, its bole I bent
Around the gable of my shed
But left the limbs above my head
The years passed by and I grew old
I hated heat and shunned the cold
My garden work became a chore
As summer days my patience wore
But resting underneath that tree
Allowed me time to watch and see
The beauty of my garden wrought
And all the neighbored friends it brought
A bunny comes to taste my beets
While shaded so, I rest my feet
A bumble-bee’s contralto thrum;
A promise of much more to come
Badgers, robins, the house finch red
All come with hopes of being fed
And I, too tired to wield my hoe,
Am glad I let that elm tree grow.
Deep heat, salt and skin
A sharp and heavy pull that leaves me breathless
Pull in
Fate caught
The story that we never thought
Untaught
Wild
Unreconciled
Fire
Deep heat, salt and skin
The story that we never thought
Fire
-Contest: Let's Minichu On Pleasure
The water retreats in a long, slow sigh
Exposing the ribbons that cling to the stone
Lush and dark, a secret held tight
by the pressure of depths they have always known
I reach for a strand, let it coil round my wrist
a velvet tension, a shudder of green
It binds with a softness I wasn’t prepared to feel
Like a ghost of a touch in the spaces between
The scent is sharp, brine and the cold
A heavy scent that fills up the chest
But the pulse in my throat is a warning, a thrum
that some things should stay in their restless rest
I pull my hand back from the swaying vine
From the way it curls, so supple and deep
The sea is still humming a name I can’t speak
and the memories are promises I’m not ready to keep
A rhythmic thrum against the fork,
A jack of hearts, a queen of spades,
We snapped them stiff with wooden cork
Or clothespins clipped in cooling shades.
The asphalt hummed a frantic tune,
A motor made of paper thin,
Beneath the white and bloated moon,
The click-clack-clatter would begin.
We were the kings of gravel drive,
With thunder trapped between the steel,
The cards alive, the spokes a-drive,
A roar for every spinning wheel.
It wasn't speed that made us bold,
But that percussive, plastic beat—
A deck of stories, frayed and old,
That turned our bikes to winged fleet.
And though the cards would soon bend,
Their glossy faces scarred and worn,
Riding into darkness, a bitter end.
When the deck ran out, we'd mourn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I drift off to sleep, casting my nets into the dark,
where thoughts dart silver, quick and wild~
a phosphorescent bloom of sharks,
the glint of something half-defiled.
They rise like soup, these shapeless things,
half-snail, half-song, half-broken wheel,
with moth-wing sighs and piano strings
that hum the tunes I cannot feel.
The catch tonight? A tooth, a key,
a lost lover’s face dissolved to mist,
the weightless thrum of what might be
entwined tight with what does not exist.
I reel them in—my surreal prize~
all writhing light with fevered ink,
then wake to find them in my eyes,
still sinking, soft, and blurred at brink.
Come and see, the angel said,
where mortal fears no longer tread,
where streets are brushed with living gold,
and light paints stories never told.
Come and see the whitened air,
a shade no earthly eyes compare,
a brilliance soft as whispered prayer,
yet brighter than the sun's own glare.
Come and see the gardens bloom,
where colors rise from every tomb,
where sorrow melts like morning dew,
and every shade is born anew.
Come and see the rivers shine,
with hues that shift like moving time,
a silver song, a gentle plea,
that hums of love eternally.
But as we climbed the crystal stair,
I felt a tremor in the air,
a distant thrum, a muted cry,
far down beneath the sapphire sky.
"Do not look long," the angel said,
"for shadows cling to souls misled.
Heaven sees all, but stands above,
a realm of mercy, light, and love."
And so I turned my gaze once more
toward endless skies and gleaming shore,
where every breath felt wild and free,
and still she whispered, Come and see.
Can you hear it?
The rhythms beating,
pulsing upon the ground
boots trampling dirt as
they march towards war.
Can you feel it?
The innocents cry for blood
bloodlust for the enemy thrumming
in each and every chest
as they shout for war!
Do you fear it?
Watching your father march
to the rhythms of his comrades
with no time for a goodbye
while your mother holds you
back against the rhythms
drawing you towards the sword.
Do you miss it?
The thrum of violence
Beating wildly upon
Your chest. The pulse
of drums now a whisper
replaced by the distant screams
of the damned.
Demon, bitter are thy days.
Pore o'er, anima.
Raking leaves for bonfires? Blaze.
Ice within me, thaw.
Weathervane, point to the stars?
Sky is full of these.
Half the year, like lids on jars.
Hide, O mysteries.
Blossom, honeysuckle.
Grow wild as ivy vines.
Knees of challenger, buckle.
Ocean, boil thy brines.
Tempest, grow tall. Hurl, O cloud.
Gun, thy machine nest.
Famous faces, lost in crowds?
Blessed bid bile best.
Ray of sun, burn evil out?
Sure, if sure you can.
Shade, what is thy life about?
Love, span what's began.
Frenzied fate, sing. Loud, my Muse.
Hound dog, quiet bay?
Proserpina, disabuse?
Well, sir, I just may.
Gauntleted fist, hard thy strike?
Don't fall off thy bike.
Spend time with a girl you like.
Barracuda? Pike.
Spike atop the city walls?
He who mills then mauls.
Chaos, how thy dancing calls!
Entropy, thy awls.
Perception, thrum! Warp, thy woof.
Steady heartbeat, ply.
Gambrel are the peaked roof?
Dreamer, thought must fly...
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