The engine roars, the metals gleam,
You race along the high-paved line,
To reach the summit of a dream
And claim the sky as yours and mine—
Or so you thought. The climb is steep,
The pace severe, the cold air thin,
And in the rush, you never keep
A tally of the quiet sin.
You build a tower, tall and bright,
A spire of stone against the blue,
With vaulted arches catching light,
Yet holding no one close to you.
For every friend was pushed aside,
And every hand was let go free,
To trade the warmth of love for pride
And secure a lonely victory.
At last the highway finds its end,
The final peak is brought in view;
No waiting crowd, no quiet friend,
No open arms to welcome you.
The crown is earned, the space is vast,
The wind blows sharp across the seat—
A solitary soul at last
Where no one ever cares to meet.
For status is an empty weight,
And power leaves a hollow sound,
If no warm voice can celebrate
The simple truths that you have found.
The prize was never just the height,
Nor standing on the peak alone,
But walking through the heavy night
With hearts that make the journey home.
Through shifting sands and
ticking gears,
I traced your shadow down
the years.
Past falling stars and velvet skies,
To seek the welcome of your
eyes.
I vaulted centuries of stone,
A restless traveler, worlds
alone,
Guided by a timeless spark,
A burning compass in the
dark.
For what are epochs, swift or
slow,
When all my paths are
mapped to you?
A thousand lifetimes carved
in sand,
Just for the chance to hold
your hand.
Contest: Secrets of The Soul
Sponsor: Ink Impress
The whole of this poem is purely poetical
And does not express my personal belief
About soul secrets.
The secrets of my soul are safe and
Protected where the orchids dream,
And never where nightmares are seen.
Where orchids dream is where peace
And tranquility dwell and where secrets
Abide that none would dare to tell.
Red and pink roses agree to stand guard,
Holding security codes printed on cards.
Myriads of thealted lines are trapped in
your pulse; some of which are tolerable.
But others are filled with disgust.
Moreover, these vaulted secrets are reserved
And kept alive, being soothed by every beat
Of your heart, forever to thrive.
Since Adam's transgression, all souls have fallen
from grace; and without Christ, we will
Continue in decline at an alarming pace.
Ancient men of track and field
asked, "What did our efforts yield?"
"I ran around and then I found
myself back at the start of the track."
"...And I vaulted to the sky, but could not fly,
and fell back to the ground."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dry twig snaps beneath my feet~
solemn punctuation
in this vaulted nave of oak and cedars.
the canopy exhales:
My hollowed trunk shelters nesting wrens,
my frost-etched rings remember drought,
my roots taste the buried stream's cool pulse.
I tilt my head—a supplicant—
as bark breathes against my palm.
the oldest oak leans close whispering:
Child, stillness is the first consonant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dry twig snaps beneath my boot~
solemn punctuation
in this vaulted nave of oak and cedars.
the canopy exhales:
My hollowed trunk shelters nesting wrens;
my frost-etched rings remember drought;
my roots taste the buried stream's cool pulse.
I tilt my head—a supplicant~
as bark breathes against my palm.
the oldest oak leans close:
Child, stillness is the first consonant.
In the toffee-brown shade of candle wax light
The stone cloistered walls moist and dark
Silent whispers from the past
Sealed beneath Villiers Street
The lonely watery veins of your eyes
Reflected the space between you and I
Between the hard **** of our desires
And the soft recitals of our measured poise
Your hand loose in the vaulted light
The moment missed and the chance released
Like curling smoke drifting onto the street
Dispersing amongst the Embankment crowd
Silently gone like the cold passing gargle
Of the brown-black Thames
On its way to the sea.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
not in the cathedral's vaulted hush
where incense coils like pious thought,
nor in the scripted words that crush
the small wild hope the heart has brought.
grace lives where broken things begin
to mend the world from deep within.
Never again to know fresh air,
Combing worms from my matted hair.
No one remains who’d ever care —
Tied to my grave, this lonesome baire.
I must escape the sun’s harsh glare,
Tread carefully down crumbling stair,
Descend into my crypt just there,
Where I sit alone in dark despair.
Upon my ancient worm-eaten chair,
Inside my vaulted charnel house lair,
Such a sad and accursed affair —
Never to rest, always aware.
This kind of death is so unfair:
No converse, no song, no whispered prayer.
A thousand lifetimes in disrepair,
Unattended, solus, solitaire.
Harshest sentence beyond compare,
Caught in this endless undeath snare.
Naught to do but eternity stare —
And comb the damn worms from my hair.
On the frozen side of the sun lies Svalbard.
A barren, treeless stretch of land
Buried beneath snow and stillness.
Here, the cold doesn’t just bite;
It consumes.
The whirlwind air scrapes skin with surgical precision.
For months each year, the sun abandons the sky.
Svalbard drifts beneath a vaulted night.
Darkness bleeds through permafrost,
Settling in the earth’s frozen marrow.
But beneath this ice-scarred wilderness,
Where avalanche and ash calcify,
A vault lies hidden deep in the mountain’s underbelly.
It cradles the future;
A womb of waiting seeds,
Asleep in rows of glass and steel.
Hope, suspended in time.
In this tomb of preservation,
Life isn’t gone.
Just waiting with a promise of rebirth.
And when the sun returns,
Brushing marigold hues across glistening glaciers
Like a kiss upon Snow-White's lips,
Those seeds will stir with life.
They will remember the sun.
They will rise.
I sit and watch the twilight
In vaulted heaven burns brittle stars
I feel the rush of wind
It cares the ash of pine
I feel the movement of the earth
In rivers of darkness flow
I feel the cosmic birth
How fragile we are
I know the tilt of the universe
In seas of oblivions void
I touch the ground it trembles
I see what is in between the fragments
In moments beyond thought
I see echoes of images from afar
How fragile we are
I taste the abstract firmament
I watch the collapse of a neutron star
In coldest nights of darkest wind
I feel the ties that bind slip away
It carries the filaments of decay
I know the passage of soul
How fragile we all are
In movements of the metronome
In oceans of reality
I feel the slipping away
I wish I could stay
In the aftermath of life
I see how fragile we all are
Sepulchered inside a vaulted night so deep
the crow soars alone inside that ebon sky of yours
Center arched in space, heaven is filled with stars
an so your secret lies across orange-yellow meteors.
Encased inside a cold embrace,
your imminent last sigh ! .
Irreversible as the hour, this cancer has taken a leap
and the butterflies of summer, have all but gone away
Choral hymns of worship, " Amazing Grace," Foresight !
how I long to keep you here, at least for one more day.
Within the cold embrace of death,
your inevitable, goodbye !
They hold their courts of pomp and ceremony in the name of history they say.
They sway the poor and destitute at arms length to avoid acknowledging their eyes, their hearts, their voices for existing in this state of way.
They laugh of joy in conceited waste, and waste and waste. Entitlement lives and must be maintained this way they say.
They expect respect for rank in society and the loyalty of blood and sacrifice with no questions ever put their way.
They scoff and laugh sipping sherrys in clubs of oak panelled, vaulted halls, their derrières on the softest leathers while outside beggars crawl out of their way.
Not the grand hymn sung in the vaulted nave,
Nor the candle flickering bright and brave,
But the whisper of love that none can see,
A heart that bends to the lowly and free.
Not the weight of words in sacred prayer,
But the silent hand that lifts despair,
The bread you break, unseen, unheard,
The comfort found in a gentle word.
Not the crown of thorns you proudly bear,
But the cross you share in another’s care.
Not the purity of the creed you claim,
But how you speak another's name.
Do you forgive, as the Master taught,
With love as free as the lilies wrought?
Do you weep with those who weep in the rain,
And feel their loss like your own pain?
In every child, in every face,
Do you see the light of saving grace?
Do you hold the earth as holy ground,
And in all things God’s love surround?
What makes you a Christian good and true
Isn’t in what the world can view—
It’s the secret deeds, the quiet cheer,
The tender mercy, year by year.
In love’s small acts, in joy's sweet art,
There dwells the faithful Christian heart.
The vaulted sky set
with stars, water lapping the pier
in prayer and all around me,
the late evening air still warm
from the day. What holds this
all together also holds me
in the moment, the gentle breeze
that is blowing in from the sea
is my breath, the restlessness
that moves deep below
the surface calm
is my restlessness.
I am tired of holding out,
at times thrashing against gravity
to preserve the subterfuge of me.
Be it alone or a part of the evening
in its quiet rest, the drift of the tides
and the star filled heavens
arched in splendor above me,
we are all being drawn inextricably
towards a somewhere, knowingly
or unaware, joyously or in fear,
towards home.
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