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Hearth Gone Cold

The fire has collapsed inward,
a scatter of grey where once
flames spoke in restless tongues.

The stones still carry warmth—
not silence, but a weight
pressed into their surface.

I sit before the hearth,
hands open to absence,
palms cupped around nothing.  

Even the smoke has lost

its path to the rafters.
What remains is not flame,

but the trace of heat,
a presence that lingers
long after the light is gone.

.

The Unfinished Kiss

The tide rose between us,
not as a wall but a breath—
salt‑heavy, unfinished,
like a sentence cut short.

Your mouth leaned forward,
mine leaned back,
and the air between
became a circle we almost closed.

Above us, constellations
shifted their shoulders,
stars rearranging
into a pattern we never named.

The kiss remains—
not absence, not presence,
but a shadow tide
that returns each night,
closing and unclosing,
closing and unclosing.

.

Walk Until the Horizon Moves

Begin before you are ready.
The path does not wait.

Stones shift.
Dust rises.
Your breath keeps time.

Do not measure distance—
measure persistence.

The world will whisper: stay still,
safety is here.
But stillness is a cage
with invisible bars.

Step again.
Even faltering steps
teach the ground your name.

And when the horizon bends,
when it leans closer
as if listening,

you will know:
movement itself
was the destination.

.

when you risk a sound

Not every silence is empty.
Some are waiting rooms,
some are doorways.

You do not need permission
to cross the threshold.
A word spoken here
can ripple outward—
not as thunder,
but as rain on dry ground.

The crowd may never turn its head.
Still, the air shifts
when you risk a sound.

Think of it less as echo,
more as migration:
your voice taking flight,
finding a branch
you will never see.  

And if one day
a stranger hums a tune
you thought was lost,
you will understand—
the quiet was listening
all along.

.

Speak Into the Quiet

Speak into the quiet—
even when no one answers.

Let your words fall like stones into water,
not to sink,
but to widen the circle.

The world will tell you to wait
until you are certain,
until the crowd nods in agreement.
Laugh, and begin anyway.

Every syllable you risk is a seed.
Every silence you break is a bridge.

Do not beg the echo
to return in your own voice—
trust it will find another throat,
another shore.

Speak into the quiet.
It will not betray you.
It will not diminish you.
It will carry you further than you know.

And when others reply,
not in unison but in harmony,
you will know:
your voice was never alone.

.

I was taught to polish mirrors

that never showed me back—

a child bent into reflection,

a servant of glass.

Their voices were lanterns

turned inward, hoarding flame.

I learned to speak in refraction,

to wear masks that smiled

without teeth.

But silence, too, is a teacher.

From the hollow rooms I carried

a stubborn ember—

not theirs, not borrowed—

a light that refuses

to bow to glass.

Stand in Your Own Light

Stand in your own light—
even when the lamps go out.

Carry your silence like a lantern,
not as a burden,
but as a map.

The world will tell you
to wait for rescue,
to lean on borrowed fire.
Smile, and keep walking.

Every step you take
is a small rebellion.
Every breath you claim
is proof you are enough.

Do not beg the tide
to turn in your favour—
learn its rhythm,
and row anyway.

Stand in your own light.
It will not blind you.
It will not leave you.
It will grow with you.

And when others gather,
drawn to the glow,
you will know:
you were never walking alone.

.

The Sun Without Answer

( from a Nietzschean perspective )

I will not leap.
The abyss is not a cradle,
but a mirror that shows only itself.
To demand meaning is to demand illusion,
and I will not be consoled by shadows.

The stone rolls, and I push it still—
not toward heaven,
but into the raw glare of the sun.
There is no higher ground,
only this earth, this dust, this breath.

O silence,
you are not a wound to be healed,
but a companion to be endured.
I will walk with you,
hand in hand with the absurd,
and call it fidelity.   

For joy is not in the answer,
but in the defiance of the question.
And if the gods are mute,
then I will sing louder,
knowing the song dies with me,
yet still singing.

"The Leap in Shadows"

( from a Kierkegaardan lens )

Despair is not the absence of God,
but the sickness of forgetting Him.
It gnaws like a worm in the marrow,
a silence that mocks the soul’s own echo.

Yet faith is no easy balm,
no gentle cradle for the weary.
It is a cliff’s edge,
a trembling step into the abyss,
where reason falters,
and only trust can bear the weight.

O Christ, Eternal Paradox—
You who are both Infinite and Infant,
You who are both Judge and Redeemer—
teach me to fall into You.

For the world offers scaffolds of sand,
and the self builds prisons of pride,
but You alone are the groundless ground,
the abyss that holds,
the darkness that shines,
the silence that sings.

So I leap—
not because I see,
but because I am seen.

.