Everyone, while alive, longs to be an actor,
To direct their own life and be its author too—
All of it modeled on unvoiced, hidden fantasies.
A touch, a hurried breath, a whispered kiss—
All unfolding behind the curtains,
Yet displayed like a fetish in a brightly lit shop window.
"Dreams come true if you wish for them," goes the slogan,
And the body quivers in anticipation, until the over-saturated mind
Admits defeat before the unforgiving onset of old age.
But meanwhile, oblivion—written into the laws of humanity—
Comes to wash away the searing mark left by the tempest,
And the blood grows calm, lost in the winding paths of solitude.
Traversing the petrified pining wasteland
I reached the emerald meadow,
emerged from the abyss of condensed aloneness
to be with you, entwined,
in the stellar sapphire night of desire,
but the enchanting echo of your faint footsteps
faded away from the portal of my heart.
What stayed with me
was the sound of silence you made,
I heard in the music of memory,
hidden in the fervor of my emotion, unexpressed.
As the ticking clock of our sanguine time stopped
at the edge of eternity,
my yearning like the sun
flaming the fleeting horizon
engulfed you with the sensual spectrum of craving,
the pacified passion got configured
into the unvoiced language of love,
composing the lilting lyric of belonging
intonated by my ardent words, unsaid.
When drifting on the delusive trail
of the melting mirage of memory menagerie
you disappeared like the dry dust
of the caved-in dune of the desolate desert,
I heard the mute me murmur, I love you,
I never said to you.
**Every House Holds a Story**
Every house conveys a story,
Each narrative unfolds layers of history.
Years of unspoken truths can influence our future,
Regardless of how carefully they are hidden.
Unlike the enigmatic identity of the Mona Lisa,
Some tales may be wiser, left unvoiced.
Within each home, there can linger unhealed heartache.
Every room serves as a subtle reminder of the past.
Once a heart is broken, the healing journey can be arduous.
Misinformation and concealed truths can foster a persistent sense of unease.
We all desire representation in our government,
A voice that advocates for our interests.
However, the onus for change rests with us,
Om is the eternal gong,
that carries spirit along,
fixating our attention
in all-time meditation.
Even when we lose focus,
we flow along the locus
of magnetism within form,
silent thunder, a bliss storm.
The initiation done,
by the light that lights the sun,
we gently metamorphose,
whilst poised in blissful repose.
Deep wisdom unfolds in time,
as we bloom betwixt love’s chime;
our unvoiced prayer, God hears,
Who by His hand our life steers.
The path that we must follow is everywhere
God has laid it out before throughout
our broken dreams and unlived lives beware
all written in his book in each account
hopes and dreams of long lost ancestors
brought to light by spiritual awakening a
Illusions of our mind geared by jesters
in boundless space our soul drums strengthen
We we are grounded in our bodies empty
always looking for our desired cravings
years go by collecting fragments plenty
finding oneness in photo engravings
no longer a nightmare the heart's rejoiced
our sincere thanks to you who stayed unvoiced
This, untrained as unvoiced
Brahmin in the bee;
Chants, in a repetitive drone
Its own sacred tone.
This, for its temple's space
My private garden's!
Minds of its calm, once entered
Are deeper interred!
Behind each unvoiced whisper
a shouting heart remains.
Beneath a raging heart
words unsaid speak on.
Within each murmured thought
a shallow grave endures.
Behind words once spoken
lay all things broken.
Enclosed within an unheard whisper,
a raging heart.
Hardest to reach type.
As self effacing
Dimmest, deadest hideaway place
Lives as deep within.
Unvoiced, as leaves shut
True feelings, a door.
Eyes'shutters, whilst across them pass
Quick frights' silhouettes
Its outlook betrayed, whilst crass besets
His world's, a world for.
Unvoiced intent before release,
heart’s desire seeking expression,
aided by God’s will, flows with ease,
which ego begins to question.
Light of Self veiled behind thought forms,
feeling no longer bliss beat’s chime,
blown like a leaf in life’s fierce storms,
causes pain in linear time.
Thought cessation is then the way,
to awake in this lucid dream,
poised in stillness we then don’t sway,
in this life we ourselves did stream.
Intent, our will, God’s grace the boon ~
All’s well if we choose not to swoon
DAWN'S FIRST LIGHT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
silence at daybreak.
sacred encounter with the Divine,
a conference of heart and soul.
beyond form, beyond language
heart beats, an echo,
a pulse vibrating through the silence.
wordless intent,
unvoiced
yet profoundly clear~
a stirring,
a flicker of grace
captures the dawn.
my soul meets God's pulse
I am led
I am unbound.
soul ascends
Poem written for Prior to Intent Poetry Content, Unseeking Seeker, sponsor, July 30, 2025
Could we not at least exchange some crummy
anecdotes about our recent pasts
some poorly recalled bus stop or shop incidents
semi memories of there was this time when
I'll take any half digested subvocal passing thoughts
and an inappropriate and unvoiced yet sincerely held
opinion which you know is safe with me
Throw me a crumb here and I'll toss you
the whole hog utilising my award-winning
(and vigorous) masculine muscles
Instead of flinging it angry apelike
into the webvoid in the form of
incoherent cackhanded freeposts
begging for any minor engagement
They with masks and scalpels
rewatch
the seconds I was given without consent.
My breath hitches
as warnings stillborn in my throat.
At this moment,
I am but
a body
opened
for overdue answers no one asked for.
A poet’s gift lies in the voice of Truth.
No—
A poet's gift is to lie,
constantly,
in lavender-gray syllables
threaded through with near-Truth—
The answer to unvoiced questions,
clipped out with tweezers,
a scorched coil—
my vocal cord.
I, a third-party haze—
rewatch
the moments I lived through like
faint breaths
fogging an oxygen mask.
My lies will be forgiven,
when they split open my sternum,
and find Truth still beating—
They’ll know,
late Truth cuts deeper than scalpel.
Season of violet grief
A day of navy oaths
The weather a dim pink hush—
ghosts of past, my muse.
I accidentally wrote a letter
scrawled on pale paper—
Guess, my June, what spills forth
when your blade slips through—
—not me, the envelope.
Perhaps a carol, yes—
or an oration (how proud I was!)—
or—
no, not that—
—perhaps just a thin red thread,
words sealed in failing breath.
Ruins of
all I dared offer.
Don’t blame me, love—
and oh, don’t fear me,
for all is said
as the letter burns—
in its pyre of regret.
A tear slides down my skin, cold as silence, soft as a whisper,
And when it reaches my lips, it curls at the edges, a silent irony of sadness,
Was it pain or relief, suffering or peace, a paradox flowing from my eyes,
Wearing a mask that even I cannot decipher, an enigmatic story in disguise,
The world sees sadness, but the tear knows better, for it carries memories, not deep wounds,
It smiles in silence, for it understands that not all goodbyes are meant to hurt,
It is a dance of emotions merging, a stream of consciousness that knows no end,
Where each drop of water becomes a story, an unspoken mystery, an unvoiced thought,
And so, my tear smiles, carrying within it a universe of hidden meanings,
For not all tears are of sadness; some are of understanding and freedom.
The mask I wear, a crafted porcelain guise,
Hides uncharted depths behind these shadowed eyes.
You glimpse the surface—an actor’s polished play—
But the soul beneath? He walks a world astray.
These laughter lines, etched scripts of light and cheer,
Conceal the wars I've waged, the silent fear.
My casual stride, a dance of practiced ease,
Cloaks ancient burdens, whispered on the breeze.
The tales I weave—a tapestry ornate—
Thread vivid joys, yet darker truths await.
Each word I speak, wrapped firm in bold disguise,
Veils restless doubts, unvoiced beneath the skies.
I long to strip this mask and let you peer
Into the fractured core, the flaws sincere.
Yet fear of scorn—a binding, spectral chain—
Keeps truths submerged in quiet, unseen rain.
Perhaps one day, in courage, I’ll reveal
The man unmasked—the wounds that time won’t heal.
Expose the jagged pieces—light and night—
And hope you’ll see a soul, both fierce and slight.
Until that hour, this visage I’ll sustain,
A nameless shadow, hiding depth and pain.
But know, beyond this painted, bright façade,
Dwells more than meets the eye—a soul unflawed.
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