They do not speak of dying,

not in the quiet grocery line,

not beneath the flicker of café lights,

not when the sky loosens its robe of stars,

and oh, what a grave mistake.

For death is not some villain in a cloak,

but the oldest truth,

the shadow stitched to your soles,

the hush behind the heartbeat.

And if you dare to meet it,

not with dread, but with reverence,

you live.

Not someday.

Now.

With a fire that does not ask for permission,

you will step out of the anger rooms,

shed the shroud of “what will they think,”

and walk barefoot into your wild life,

untamed, imperfect, and exquisitely yours.

A child who has tasted death’s breath,

returns with eyes older than calendars,

not brave, but lucid.

Not reckless, but awake.

You see, it is not courage,

to sip the rain like wine,

to laugh so hard the stars come closer,

it is logic.

It is sense.

It is the compass of those who know the road ends,

so they sing while walking.

So love.

Not as a performance, but as a pulse.

Learn.

Not for praise, but for wonder.

Taste.

The peach, the kiss, the grief, the salt.

And leave behind no legacy but this:

That you were here.

Truly.

Madly.

Moment by moment, as a brief candle,

burning unapologetically in the wind.

There were words I loosed like doves in flame,

Believing then they sang my name.

They circled truths I thought were stone,

But time has taught me bone is bone.

It bends, it breaks, it mends anew,

And so, my thinking shifted too.

There were paths I carved with fervent feet,

Mistaking hunger for the heat.

I danced with shadows, dressed in pride,

I kissed ideals I now let slide.

Not out of shame, nor some disguise,

But from the way that wisdom sighs.

No, I wear no doubled face,

No costume stitched with sly disgrace.

I do not play at saint or sin,

But simply shed my older skin.

The soul, like sea, must ebb and swell,

What once was right may not still dwell.

Growth is not betrayal’s twin,

It is the echoing voice within.

That softens stone and clears the dust,

That asks, “What now deserves your trust?”

And so I rise, unchained from past,

Not fixed in marble, but made to last.

Judge me not by yesteryear,

But by the will that brought me here.

I bloom, I stumble, I redefine,

Each version still a thread of mine.

For even stars must shift their place,

And find new fire in endless space.

So let me change, and let it be,

A hymn to our humanity.

Not proof I’ve lost my truest hue,

But proof I’ve lived, and listened, too.

I close the book, its spine sighs shut,

the whisper of a thousand nights drawn in.

A chapter folds like hands in prayer,

but not all endings are so clean.

The lantern dims. The room forgets.

Yet on my fingers, dusk still clings,

not with fire, but with a bruise,

of words that bled with shaken wings.

I turned the page; it turned me back,

a mirror’s glance, a hollow swell.

The tale is done, but silence keeps,

what ink refuses to quell.

The parchment sleeps, but I remain

marked by the shadows love once wore.

We name it "past", but past is ink,

and ink remembers so much more.

So let the book stay closed awhile,

beneath the dust, beneath the rain.

The lines may fade, but not the ache,

of what was written in hurried vein.

I do not know what waits beyond

This pale horizon’s shifting seam,

The road is fog, the stars are gone,

Yet still I follow some old dream.

No map, no mark, no prophet’s voice,

No compass etched in stone or sky,

Just breath and hush, a wavering choice,

To walk, though every reason asks me why.

Each footfall hums a softer tune,

Not brave, not bold, but something near,

A whisper shaped beneath the moon,

Not “Go,” but simply, “Still be here.”

And is that not what hope becomes,

A rhythm carried in the chest?

Not knowing where the morning drums,

But rising still, and doing our best.

So let the dark be what it is,

A cloak, a gate, a sea unspun,

My soul has learned the art of this,

To step, not seeing, toward the sun.

For poetry walks where language breaks,

In silences the heart completes,

Each step a faith the future takes,

Though blind, the path beneath me speaks.

Pain is not a fleeting shadow,

nor a thief that steals in the night.

It settles deep, like roots in earth,

clutching marrow, dimming light.

It speaks in whispers, sharp and raw,

etching echoes through the bone,

a language carved in silent cries,

a weight we carry, yet unknown.

Yet, even in its cruel embrace,

where sorrow stains the breaking dawn,

the soul remembers how to rise,

though weary, aching, battle-worn.

For pain is not a sovereign king,

though it may claim the throne awhile,

it bows before the quiet strength,

that lingers in a weary smile.

We learn to hold it, not to break,

to breathe through fire, soft and slow,

to meet its presence, eye to eye,

and teach it when to stay or go.

Through tender hands, through patient steps,

we weave our wounds with threads of grace,

allowing light to find the cracks,

where love and courage interlace.

For pain is but a passing storm,

it bends, it rages, and it sways,

but hearts that learn to bear its weight,

will find their peace in softer days.

So let it teach, but not consume,

let it shape, but not define,

for even pain, when held with love,

becomes a bridge from dark to shine.

You’ve wandered long through shadowed lands,

With trembling heart and open hands,

The clocks spun slow, the sky turned grey,

Yet still, you rose to meet the day.

A thousand questions marked your pace,

Who am I now? What is this place?

But hush - the wind, it softly knows,

The soul still grows, the spirit flows.

You wore your grief like autumn’s coat,

Then shed it when the spring took note.

The stars watched on with patient eyes,

As you began to reorganize.

Your path, your pace, your whispered dreams,

No longer bound to old regimes.

You dared to laugh, to love, to try,

Beneath a less familiar sky.

And though you walk with aching feet,

The journey’s song is bittersweet.

You are not lost - you’re being led,

By threads of gold the Fates have spread.

So question all! The love, the lore,

The quiet "why," the distant shore.

You’re not alone - just newly found,

Among kind hearts, profound and sound.

Step forward now with trust, with grace,

The future waits to know your face.

For all that’s past is not yet gone,

You’re just becoming who you’ve been all along.

 Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope

In shadows of fear, a whisper takes hold,

A sinister seed, a conspiracy untold.

Whispers of a virus, man-made and vile,

Profit the motive, trust exiled.

Amidst echoes of doubt and deceit's dark dance,

A personal battle, a silent stance.

Isolation's sting, stigma's crushing weight,

The heaviness of uncertainty's relentless gait.

Michel Simonin's struggle, a fight to be heard,

Against AIDS' cruel stigma, his voice undeterred.

In letters and television, his story unfurled,

Defying the silence, refusing to be deterred.

Through tears of resilience, a choice bravely made,

To shatter the silence, to not be swayed.

Unveiling the humanity behind the disease,

Reclaiming identity, refusing to appease.

Yet in depths of sorrow's unending night,

Science illuminates, a beacon of light.

WGS and NGS unravel the viral code,

Evolution's truth, HIV's primal abode.

In sequencing's intricate art, a tale unfolds,

Of chimpanzee origins, zoonotic thresholds. Palindromes dance in the RNA's sway,

Nature's complex beauty, now on display.

Yet echoes of deception still linger and spread,

Shattering lives, filling hearts with dread.

The vulnerable bear the heaviest toll,

In fabrication's web, their innocence stole.

In this intimate war, we must take a stand,

Embracing our scars, extending a hand.

Empathy our salve, compassion our guide,

In unity and truth, our spirits reside.

From pain's crucible, we'll rise transformed,

Scars into strength, wisdom reborn.

In the symphony of survival, harmony will reign,

As we honour the journey, through sun and rain.

With science as our compass, truth as our light,

We'll navigate the landscapes of the heart's might.

Reclaiming our stories, our voices bold,

In courage and resilience, our lives we'll mould.

In the tapestry of existence, we'll find our place,

Stitching together healing, with tender grace.

Each breath a rebellion, each moment a choice,

To survive and thrive, with authentic voice.

In the echoes of resilience, hope whispers anew,

Threads of connection, strength to see us through. 

Through shadows and light, we'll weave our way,

Embracing our truth, come what may.

In the alchemy of survival, transformation blooms, 

Vulnerability becomes armour, silence finds its tune.

From shattered fragments, a mosaic we'll raise,

A testament to the unbreakable human spirit's blaze.

 Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope

In shadows of fear, a whisper takes hold,

A sinister seed, a conspiracy untold.

Whispers of a virus, man-made and vile,

Profit the motive, trust exiled.

Amidst echoes of doubt and deceit's dark dance,

A personal battle, a silent stance.

Isolation's sting, stigma's crushing weight,

The heaviness of uncertainty's relentless gait.

Michel Simonin's struggle, a fight to be heard,

Against AIDS' cruel stigma, his voice undeterred.

In letters and television, his story unfurled,

Defying the silence, refusing to be deterred.

Through tears of resilience, a choice bravely made,

To shatter the silence, to not be swayed.

Unveiling the humanity behind the disease,

Reclaiming identity, refusing to appease.

Yet in depths of sorrow's unending night,

Science illuminates, a beacon of light.

WGS and NGS unravel the viral code,

Evolution's truth, HIV's primal abode.

In sequencing's intricate art, a tale unfolds,

Of chimpanzee origins, zoonotic thresholds.
Palindromes dance in the RNA's sway,

Nature's complex beauty, now on display.

Yet echoes of deception still linger and spread,

Shattering lives, filling hearts with dread.

The vulnerable bear the heaviest toll,

In fabrication's web, their innocence stole.

In this intimate war, we must take a stand,

Embracing our scars, extending a hand.

Empathy our salve, compassion our guide,

In unity and truth, our spirits reside.

From pain's crucible, we'll rise transformed,

Scars into strength, wisdom reborn.

In the symphony of survival, harmony will reign,

As we honour the journey, through sun and rain.

With science as our compass, truth as our light,

We'll navigate the landscapes of the heart's might.

Reclaiming our stories, our voices bold,

In courage and resilience, our lives we'll mould.

In the tapestry of existence, we'll find our place,

Stitching together healing, with tender grace.

Each breath a rebellion, each moment a choice,

To survive and thrive, with authentic voice.

In the echoes of resilience, hope whispers anew,

Threads of connection, strength to see us through. 

Through shadows and light, we'll weave our way,

Embracing our truth, come what may.

In the alchemy of survival, transformation blooms, 

Vulnerability becomes armour, silence finds its tune.

From shattered fragments, a mosaic we'll raise,

A testament to the unbreakable human spirit's blaze.

"Primum non nocere," a principle profound,

Not rigid law, but wisdom found.

In healing's halls, where choices weigh,

It guides the hand, but doesn't sway.

"ὀφελέειν ἢ μὴ βλάπτειν," a balanced plea,

"To benefit, or harm not," complexity's key.

Not black and white, but shades between,

Where modern medicine's challenges are seen.

The caduceus gleams, oft misunderstood,

While Asclepius' staff stands where healing stood.

Symbols twisted, meanings blurred,

Yet ethical practice remains undeterred.

In sterile rooms where decisions loom,

Doctors and patients dispel the gloom.

They weigh the risks, consider gain,

In partnership, to ease the pain.

Some peddle falsehoods, sweet and bright,

While truth seeks haven in the night.

But evidence-based practice stands tall,

Against deception's siren call.

"Primum nil nocere," evolving still,

Not perfection, but good faith's will.

To strive for best, while harm to shun,

In healing's never-ending run.

In research labs and by bedsides true,

Ethical minds seek what to do.

Through trials tested, with knowledge bright,

They pierce the veil of health's long night.

"To benefit, or harm not," the true decree,

A beacon burning, for all to see.

Not simple maxim, but complex art,

Where science meets the human heart.

With shared trust, respect held high,

Patient and healer together try

To chart a course through health's dark sea,

With ethics as their guiding key.