Awakening in the Quiet

In the stillness after sorrow,

when the heart’s heavy cloak begins to lift,

there is a stirring—

like the first breath of spring wind through bare branches.

Soft as dawn’s gentle touch,

hope seeps into the cracks,

finding root in the fractured places,

where once only silence lived.

It does not shout or blaze—

this quiet awakening—

but hums like a distant song,

reminding the soul of its endless strength.

The weight of grief remains,

but now, it becomes a mantle woven with light,

each thread a memory transformed,

each shadow embraced as part of the whole.

In this unfolding moment,

we are invited to rise,

not by forgetting what was lost,

but by carrying it tenderly forward.

To walk through the quiet,

not alone but accompanied by the whispers

of what once was—and what still might be.

Here, beneath the open sky,

the soul remembers:

even after the longest night,

the sun returns.

The Breath Between Worlds

Between the shadows and the dawn,

there is a breath—

a sacred pause where old sorrows dissolve,

and something new begins to stir.

This is the space where hope takes root,

silent and unseen at first,

like the softest leaf unfurling

after a long, harsh winter.

Here, beneath the weight of all that was,

a quiet strength is born—

not in forgetting, but in embracing,

not in rushing, but in waiting.

The soul learns the ancient art

of gentle surrender—

to let go without losing,

to open wide without breaking.

In this breath between worlds,

there is a promise whispered—

that even the deepest night

cannot hold the morning back.

And so, step by tender step,

we rise—

carrying the past within us,

but walking toward the light.

Beneath the Quiet Veil

Beneath the quiet veil of dawn,

where shadows blend with light,

the heart lays bare its whispered ache—

the soft unraveling of what once was whole.

There, in the stillness,

a trembling begins—

not of fear, but of awakening,

a slow stirring of hope beneath the weight of loss.

Each breath a fragile offering,

each pause a sacred space—

where silence is not absence,

but a tender bridge to all that remains.

The veil does not conceal,

it cradles the hidden threads—

those fragile filaments of memory,

woven deep within the soul’s embrace.

And in this gentle reckoning,

we find the courage to feel—

to touch the edges of longing,

and hold it close without breaking.

Beneath the quiet veil,

there is a sacred promise—

that even in the softest shadow,

light is waiting to be born again.

The heart, once tightly clenched,

now pulses with fragile rhythm—

each beat a tremor through the stillness,

echoing the spaces left behind.

The weight of all unsaid words,

the shadows of promises unmet,

linger softly like the mist—

neither gone nor fully held.

In this place between breathing,

time bends and blurs,

and tears become silent prayers,

folded deep within the soul’s chambers.

We do not rush the healing—

there is no haste here—

only the slow unveiling of truth,

the gentle peeling back of pain.

For beneath the quiet veil,

grief and grace entwine,

each one a thread in the tapestry

of what it means to live and lose.

And as the dawn light softens,

we learn to lean into the ache—

to cradle every broken fragment,

and find the beauty in the cracks.

The Quiet Pulse of Time

 The day unfolds,

not in thunderous steps,

but in the soft pulse of moments—

each one a breath, a heartbeat,

a quiet ripple across the surface of time.

Like the slow arc of sunflowers

turning ever so slightly toward the light,

our spirits trace a path

through the unseen currents of becoming.

There is a rhythm here,

the ancient cadence of earth and sky,

where nothing is hurried,

and nothing is lost—

only transformed.

Leaves fall not with sorrow,

but with grace,

their descent a slow surrender

to the earth’s deep cradle.

So too, the heart learns—

to let go without breaking,

to bend without breaking,

to hold silence as a friend

rather than a cage.

In this pulse,

we find the tender threads

that bind us to all things,

the whispered truth that time does not sever—

only softens.

The quiet pulse of time

teaches us that even stillness

is movement,

even absence

holds presence,

and every ending

is the breath before a new beginning.

The Breath of New Light

In the stillness of morning,

when the world is wrapped in quiet,

there comes a breath —

soft, tentative, like a whispered promise.

It moves through the ribs,

a cool touch against the warmth of life,

unfolding slow like petals

that bloom unseen in the hush before dawn.

This breath carries no burden—

no weight of expectation,

only the gentle stirring of possibility

and the subtle scent of fresh earth after rain.

It is the language of becoming,

the delicate art of beginning again,

where every exhale

is a release of shadows long held close,

and every inhale

fills the heart with the light of new days.

Here, beneath the pale sky,

the body remembers how to soften,

how to trust the quiet unfolding,

how to cradle the fragile thread of hope

that weaves itself into the skin of being.

No need to rush—

this breath is a patient song,

a slow dance of light and shadow,

inviting the soul to wake gently,

to rise in its own time,

to greet the day with open hands.

Whispers in the Waking

There is a language

spoken only by the dawn—

soft, unhurried whispers

that brush against the edges of thought.

They speak of fragile truths,

of wounds that time cannot erase,

but also of healing light

that seeps quietly through the cracks.

Between the pulse of night

and the promise of day,

there lies a moment—

still, suspended,

where the soul listens.

A breath held in between,

where sorrow and hope

dance in gentle balance.

The silence here is not empty,

but full of possibility—

like seeds sleeping beneath frozen soil,

waiting for the warmth to call them forth.

The heart learns to hear again,

to soften without breaking,

to bend with the rhythm of life’s tide.

And though the past still lingers,

its shadows long and deep,

there is something tender in surrender—

a letting go that is not loss,

but the quiet birth of peace.

 

First Light Returns

The dawn does not rush—

it creeps softly,

a timid brush of color

across the edge of night.

It stirs the sleeping world—

the brittle grass,

the tired sky,

the heart long held still.

In the soft unfolding,

there is no urgency,

only a quiet invitation—

to rise, to breathe, to begin.

The frost melts slowly,

trickling down like whispered promises

once forgotten, now remembered.

Each new ray,

a thread of hope woven

into the fabric of a tender morning.

And in this gentle glow,

the soul stretches awake—

not with the clash of storms,

but with the grace of slow awakening.

Here, beneath the burgeoning light,

the dream of life returns—

fragile, fragile,

yet fiercely alive.

The Quiet Season

 There comes a quiet season

when the earth holds its breath,

and the sky is a pale sheet

folded gently over sleeping fields.

The trees stand bare,

their branches tracing delicate lace—

an intricate web of absence,

empty yet full of unseen promise.

In this stillness,

the heart learns to wait—

not with restless longing,

but with patient knowing.

The winter of the soul is no longer cold,

but a gentle pause,

a hushed space where old sorrows dissolve

like frost melting at dawn.

Beneath the frozen ground,

seeds gather strength—

invisible, but stirring,

waiting for the quiet call of spring.

So too, does healing come—

in its own time,

softly, without demand,

a slow unfolding into light.

Beneath the Quiet Surface

Beneath the quiet surface of the soul,

where still waters once held restless storms,

there lies a world untouched by noise—

a place where time slows its hurried pace,

and every breath is measured, soft, and deep.

Here, the shadows fold into themselves,

no longer sharp but gently rounded,

like river stones worn smooth by patient tides.

The echoes of old conflicts fade to whispers,

and even memories learn to rest without weight.

It is here that wounds begin their healing,

not with frantic haste, but steady kindness—

a balm poured slowly, soaking through the cracks,

until the broken parts remember how to breathe,

and the heart reclaims its ancient calm.

Beneath this quiet surface,

hope is neither loud nor urgent—

it is a faint light glowing steadily,

guiding us home through the lingering dusk,

to the stillness we once lost and now find again.

The Way Silence Softens - 1

Silence is not absence—

it is a gentle unraveling,

a slow letting go of tension held

in the fibers of the heart.

It does not shout, nor break;

it seeps in quietly,

like dawn’s light folding over the hills,

softening edges once sharp with pain.

In the space where words once clashed,

silence plants a garden of stillness—

each breath a petal unfolding,

each pause a root growing deeper.

Here, the weight of unspoken sorrow

melts into the earth,

where grief can rest,

and hope can whisper,

without demand or fear.

This silence holds the echoes

of what was left unsaid—

not as chains, but as threads

woven gently into the fabric of being,

binding wounds with quiet care.

And in this quiet,

the heart learns to listen anew—

to the softness beneath the storm,

to the tender pulse of peace

rising from the ashes of goodbye.

Whispering Quiet

At last, the noise retreats—

the clamour of hope and heartbreak,

the restless tides of longing and loss.

Here, in the gentle folding of stillness,

I find the space to breathe—

a soft pause between the chapters,

where memories drift like autumn leaves

settling in silent pools.

No need to chase the flicker of yesterday,

nor wrestle the shadows of tomorrow.

Just this moment—

quiet as the dawn’s first light,

fragile as a whispered secret

between heartbeats.

Here, I listen—

to the slow unfolding of time,

to the hush beneath the world’s hurried breath,

to the simple grace of being still,

and whole,

and present.

The Way Silence Softens

 There is a silence

that does not pierce

but settles—

like snow on an empty bench,

or breath forgotten

on the windowsill of winter.

It does not accuse.

It does not ache.

It simply arrives

when all the words

have worn through

like threads

on an old, unraveling shirt.

We have said

all we knew how to say.

The rest was gesture,

glance,

the subtle arch of a back

turning toward sleep.

And now—

only the hush remains.

But not the hollow kind.

Not the echo of absence

ringing in rooms once full.

This silence carries weight,

yes—

but the kind that grounds you,

not buries you.

It wraps itself

around the shoulders

like a shawl stitched

from unshed tears

and unspoken forgiveness.

It does not ask you to forget.

It asks you to remember

without burning.

The scent of tea

cooling on the counter.

The book with your note

tucked in page seventy-two.

The way you once said

my name

as if it had just been invented

for your mouth.

All these things live

in the softened quiet.

And they do not fade.

They deepen.

I sit with them now—

not to grieve,

not to rebuild,

but to witness

what remains

when love lets go

but does not leave.

This is how

the heart learns to breathe again.

Not through a storm.

Not through fire.

But through the gentle return

of silence—

not as emptiness,

but as ease.

And this, I think,

is the way healing begins:

A single exhale.

A loosening of fists.

The knowing that even the broken

can still belong

to light.

When Hands Forget How to Hold

 There was a time

when your hand fit so quietly in mine

it felt like breath—

not taken,

but returned.

Our fingers once knew

the language of clasp and comfort—

an unspoken vow

sealed skin to skin,

knuckles to memory.

But even hands grow weary.

Not suddenly—

but by degrees.

A hesitation at the knuckle,

a pause before reaching,

a letting go

that begins long before

the actual release.

Do you remember

how we first learned to touch?

The tentative grazing

of fingertips on a coffee mug,

shoulders brushing

as we passed each other

in narrow hallways of time.

Even then,

touch held weight—

not of pressure,

but of presence.

And when we held,

we held everything.

Hope.

Grief.

The shadowed softness

of unspoken fears.

But something shifted—

not in the hands,

but in the will.

A drifting of trust

like pollen on still water,

until even the most familiar touch

felt foreign.

Now, these hands

carry the echo

of what they once knew.

They reach without reaching.

They hover,

unsure

if warmth will be returned

or vanish like mist

against the cheek of morning.

It is a quiet grief—

not loud enough for mourning,

yet deep enough

to hollow out a gesture.

When hands forget how to hold,

hearts falter.

Not from loss,

but from the silence

that spreads

where connection once lived.

And yet—

even in forgetting,

there is memory.

A subtle twitch in the palm,

a reflex in the wrist,

a dream where two hands

still find each other

in the dark.

So I wait.

Not for your hand,

but for the moment

when my own

will remember

how it once

held light

and called it love.

Where We Leave Our Names Behind

There comes a place

in every story

where names no longer fit.

Where the syllables we once wore

like silk

begin to fray at the seams,

and even our signatures

grow unfamiliar

in our own trembling hands.

I remember yours—

not just the sound of it,

but the hush that followed

whenever I whispered it

into the dark.

A name is more than a label—

it is a breath carried forward,

a promise sewn into the fabric

of another's memory.

But time,

patient and unhurried,

sands down even the most

precise of etchings.

Now, your name

sits somewhere

between a half-closed window

and a long-forgotten song—

faint,

fluttering,

not quite lost

but no longer waiting.

There are places

we leave our names behind—

on café tables and train tickets,

on the inside covers of books

we once read together,

on notes folded twice

and hidden

beneath the warmth of a pillow.

And sometimes,

we leave them behind

in people.

I carried yours

in my chest for years,

not as a wound,

but as a map

to a country

I never visited again.

I no longer say it aloud—

but in the hush between

two passing thoughts,

it lingers.

That name.

Your name.

Like a tide returning to shore

long after the ship has vanished.

We spend our lives

leaving traces—

some in ink,

some in ash,

some in the soft ache

of a memory

that never fully learned

how to forget.

And when the last of our names

are no longer spoken,

only silence remains—

patient,

kind,

carrying us gently

into the sea of all

that once was. 

The Letters I Never Sent

 There are letters

I wrote to you

in the half-light

between midnight and rain,

when my heart, like an inkpot,

spilled slowly across

the silence of paper.

I folded them carefully—

creased with care,

sealed with breath,

but never mailed.

Some still sleep

in the bottom drawer,

yellowing at the edges,

pressed flat

like forgotten petals

between the pages of a life

I never shared.

Each letter

was a voice I could not become—

too proud,

too afraid,

too late.

They speak of things

you already knew—

the way your absence

entered a room

before your footsteps did,

how your laughter

clung to my sleeves

long after you left.

They speak of

mornings that tasted like waiting,

of words I swallowed

so you wouldn’t see

how much I needed you.

They ask nothing now—

these letters—

only to be read

by the ghosts

of the people we were

when we still touched

each other’s names

like offerings.

There is one

I wrote and burned—

on a night so quiet

I could hear

my own forgetting.

Ash never complains.

It just drifts

into the air

with the same grace

as your silence.

Would it have mattered,

had I sent them?

Would your eyes

have softened

at the edge of my name?

Would my words

have traced a path

back to your hands?

I will never know.

But some nights,

when the sky feels

like a wound

that never scabs,

I still write—

not to send,

but to remember

the shape of my voice

when it still knew

how to miss you

out loud.

The Weight of a Shared Silence

There was a time

when words wandered freely between us—

soft as lamp-smoke at dusk,

lingering between tea cups

and unfinished songs.

Now,

there is only the silence—

not absence, not distance,

but the dense hush

of two hearts

still breathing the same weather,

but forgetting the sound of rain.

You sit, I know,

not far—

perhaps behind a window grown quiet

with too many yesterdays,

your fingers resting on old wood,

the way mine do

on this folded letter.

We were once

the evening tide—

ebb and rush,

pull and murmur,

and now?

We are stone under moss,

still touching,

but no longer warm.

How did we get here—

where even a glance

feels like trespass?

Where each unspoken word

gathers dust

like unshed tears

on a locked cabinet shelf?

I do not know

who built the wall—

perhaps I laid the first brick,

perhaps you closed the final gate,

but it stands now,

thick and wordless,

between us.

And yet—

In that silence

there is still something—

not forgiveness, not fire,

but the soft ache

of a shared memory

that refuses to die.

A single cup still waits

beside mine on the table.

And sometimes,

I think I hear your breath

on the other side of the hush—

almost saying my name.

If only one of us

would whisper first—

crack the surface,

let light back in.

But this silence,

this silence has grown

so heavy with love

it forgets how to speak.

Her Eyes (Invocation in the Gaze)

From the window of an old photograph,

your eyes —

not just looking,

but reaching,

whispering spells I had long since forgotten.

What incantation lives there

in those still pools of dusk and dream?

They undid me.

Not with sound,

but with the hush that follows a first breath in love.

My heart — once a fortress of quiet,

now trembles

beneath the weight of a glance.

And the mind —

like a kite let loose —

drifts in the windless sky of your silence.

O those eyes —

are they vessels of wine

or portals to a realm beyond remorse?

Are they chalices, or churches, or

just twin windows

where my soul goes to kneel?

I've forgotten the taste of solitude

since drowning in their depth.

I’ve unlearned my name

and all my prayers

now begin with you.

No tavern calls me anymore —

your gaze has become my intoxication.

Each blink, a benediction.

Each pause,

a passage to something sacred.

I beg of the stars:

let me meet those eyes again —

not through a cold frame,

not across time’s cruel distance,

but as breath meets breath,

as two rivers find their confluence

in a valley that remembers every monsoon.

For if I die

without ever

touching

the living fire behind them,

my soul’s long journey

will remain incomplete —

its map unfinished,

its purpose unfulfilled.

Your Eyes (A meditative, lyrical ode)

Your eyes, from within that frozen frame,

gaze out—not merely at me,

but into me—

with a silence more eloquent than speech,

with a stillness deeper than sleep,

as though time itself paused

to sip from their mystery.

What spell did you cast,

you sorceress of the soul,

with nothing but the calm weight

of your lake-deep eyes?

My heart, once a steady drum,

has lost all rhythm—

my breath stumbles like a child

learning to walk in storm light.

Are these eyes,

or are they chalices of wine,

crystal goblets filled with ancient intoxication?

Tell me—are they windows

to a forgotten Eden,

or mirrors into the soul I lost

before I knew it was mine?

Since I drowned in their quiet tide,

I’ve not returned

to the wine-house of the world.

Who needs taverns or vessels of drink

when your gaze

is the cup that overflows?

One glance, and I forget

what loneliness meant.

Tell me, beloved—

how do your eyes speak without a voice,

touch without a hand,

wound and heal with the same shimmer?

Even from behind this painted stillness,

they haunt me—

like stars in a portrait of dusk,

like echoes in a hall I’ve never walked,

and yet remember.

Your eyes—

two lotus blooms resting on a twilight lake,

unshaken by wind or wish,

but endlessly stirring me

to dream.

Bring them to me, if ever the gods are kind—

not just the memory, not just the image,

but the living gaze,

the undammed tide,

the eyes that might meet mine,

not in paint,

but in breath and moment.

Because if I never touch that gaze again,

never watch those eyes respond,

my soul will wander its lifetime

half-born,

half-bound,

a pilgrim never arriving.

The journey between souls—

it needs no road, no map,

only a meeting of eyes.

Let it be.

Let it happen.

Because if it doesn’t,

this voyage of spirit and flesh,

this life I carry like a jar of flame—

will remain incomplete.

And I—

no matter the joys,

no matter the miles—

will forever be

unfinished.

The Field of Thorns (A meditation on frustration and the soil of the mind)

Why is our mind,

so often steeped in sorrow,

clouded by the bitter smoke

of frustration?

Was it not once—

a canvas clean,

a soft, untrodden path,

a mirror without stain?

The One who shaped us—

who breathed into us a spark—

gave us minds

innocent as the first dawn,

pure as a newborn sky.

But we,

restless in our growing,

poured in the venom

of our narrowing thoughts,

we seeded our fears,

our jealousies, our pride—

into that supple soil

of the soul’s beginning.

And so it grew—

not a garden,

but a harvest of thorns.

A field choked with sharpness,

where no blossom breathes,

and no breeze carries peace.

Now we eat

what we ourselves have planted.

We taste the bitterness

of our own hardened growth.

And we wonder,

why we feel so stifled,

why we name ourselves

frustrated, broken—

why even in silence,

we ache.

Why do we not return—

to that soft, wet clay

of the mind unformed,

where fresh thoughts can bloom

like lilies in spring rain?

When we were children—

how open we were!

How light the truth sat upon our shoulders!

We laughed with our whole bodies,

we cried with honest eyes.

There was no thorn

within our souls.

So why do we not carry

that clarity forward,

that radiant honesty

through all the years?

Why do we let

the world chisel us down

into sharper versions

of ourselves?

*If only*—

if only we could till again

the soil of our minds,

if only we could sow

the seeds of kindness,

compassion,

generosity of spirit.

Then never again

would frustration rise

like weeds in spring.

Then no longer

would our thoughts

turn brittle and cruel,

and no longer

would we forget

that we were born

to bloom.

Let the mind be moist again—

not with anger,

but with wonder.

Let us not reap

the thorns of our own bitterness,

but tend instead

a field of gentleness.

And perhaps then,

we will no longer be known

as frustrated souls,

but as minds

made wide again by love—

and lives

made free again

by light.

---

Would you like this poem shaped into a printed page format or broken into visual stanzas for easier reading aloud or performance?

A meditation on frustration and the soil of the mind)*

Why is our mind,

so often steeped in sorrow,

clouded by the bitter smoke

of frustration?

Was it not once—

a canvas clean,

a soft, untrodden path,

a mirror without stain?

The One who shaped us—

who breathed into us a spark—

gave us minds

innocent as the first dawn,

pure as a newborn sky.

But we,

restless in our growing,

poured in the venom

of our narrowing thoughts,

we seeded our fears,

our jealousies, our pride—

into that supple soil

of the soul’s beginning.

And so it grew—

not a garden,

but a harvest of thorns.

A field choked with sharpness,

where no blossom breathes,

and no breeze carries peace.

Now we eat

what we ourselves have planted.

We taste the bitterness

of our own hardened growth.

And we wonder,

why we feel so stifled,

why we name ourselves

frustrated, broken—

why even in silence,

we ache.

Why do we not return—

to that soft, wet clay

of the mind unformed,

where fresh thoughts can bloom

like lilies in spring rain?

When we were children—

how open we were!

How light the truth sat upon our shoulders!

We laughed with our whole bodies,

we cried with honest eyes.

There was no thorn

within our souls.

So why do we not carry

that clarity forward,

that radiant honesty

through all the years?

Why do we let

the world chisel us down

into sharper versions

of ourselves?

*If only*—

if only we could till again

the soil of our minds,

if only we could sow

the seeds of kindness,

compassion,

generosity of spirit.

Then never again

would frustration rise

like weeds in spring.

Then no longer

would our thoughts

turn brittle and cruel,

and no longer

would we forget

that we were born

to bloom.

Let the mind be moist again—

not with anger,

but with wonder.

Let us not reap

the thorns of our own bitterness,

but tend instead

a field of gentleness.

And perhaps then,

we will no longer be known

as frustrated souls,

but as minds

made wide again by love—

and lives

made free again

by light.

---

Would you like this poem shaped into a printed page format or broken into visual stanzas for easier reading aloud or performance?

Hatred

Why do we harbor hatred

for those so close within our hearts—

those who once filled our every breath?

Why do they suddenly drift away,

slipping far from the reach

of our deepest longings?

Perhaps our hopes weigh too heavy

upon the fragile shoulders

of desire’s tender bloom.

This chain of hopes—

no one knows where it begins—

but it awakens alongside each yearning.

Then we measure our desire,

testing it on the scales of hope,

waiting for the poison’s effect

to reveal itself or relent.

While desire stands firm

against hope’s dark shadow,

it grows and blossoms,

alive and unbroken.

But the moment that black veil

of expectation descends—

that’s when desire gasps its last,

and hatred is born,

cold and fierce.

Why do we burden longing

with the weight of hope’s demand?

We gain nothing but

the restless loss of peace.

Let desire be tethered lightly,

only as far as it can flutter

without strangling life itself.

Let desire turn back freely

when the path grows harsh,

and in that gentle freedom,

desire will smile—

and hatred will never take root.

And in this quiet reckoning—

when hate dissolves like morning mist,

and longing is no longer weighed

by chains of fragile hope—

we find a tender stillness,

where hearts, unburdened, breathe as one.

Here, beneath the vast expanse of sky,

love is neither cage nor battlefield—

but a gentle river flowing free,

inviting all wounds to heal,

inviting all souls to rest,

and finally, to be whole.

Why Do We Harbor Hate? (Meditative and imagery-rich version)

Why do we harbor hate

for those who dwell so close—

so close within the chambers

where our deepest longings rest?

Why, like leaves torn from the same branch,

do we suddenly drift apart—

fading like a whispered prayer

lost upon the restless wind,

so far from the warm embrace

of our yearning hearts?

Perhaps it is the weight—

the heavy weight of hope,

like stones piled high on fragile dreams,

crushing tender shoots

before they ever bloom.

An invisible chain begins—

no one knows from where—

this endless chain of expectations,

wrapping tight around our wishes

the moment they first draw breath.

And so we test our longing—

measuring it

against the cruel scale of hope,

as if hope alone

could justify desire’s existence.

As long as our yearning

passes this harsh trial,

hope’s venom cannot touch us,

and the garden of our desires

blooms wild and free.

But the moment the shadow—

black and cold—

of expectation falls heavy—

desire gasps and withers—

its fragile light extinguished

beneath the darkened sky.

From that silence,

from the hollow left behind,

hatred is born—

bitter, sharp, and cruel—

a scar carved deep

where love once dared to live.

Why do we burden desire

with hope’s heavy yoke,

expecting it to rise,

when chains pull it down,

binding wings

before they’ve learned to fly?

We gain nothing—

only lose the quiet peace

that filled the stillest places within,

as hope and longing clash,

wounding tender hearts

with silent wars.

Let desire be free—

like fire flickering in the dusk,

fragile yet alive,

dancing with the flickering light of possibility.

Bind desire only

where it can breathe and struggle—

where it may pause or turn back,

without shattering.

If we learn this—

if we hold desire gently,

like a fragile bloom beneath soft rains—

it will smile again,

and hatred will never find root,

nor grow thorny branches

in the garden of our souls.

---

The Weight of Expectation

Like winter’s frost

that settles on the bare branches—

expectation chills desire’s bloom,

turning vibrant petals brittle,

cracking the tender skin

of dreams yet unborn.

And yet, when spring rains fall—

soft, persistent, healing—

hope can coax life anew,

if it loosens its grip

and lets longing breathe.

But when expectation

becomes the storm,

how many blossoms must wither

before we learn

to let desire be gentle?

---

A Quiet Prayer

So let us whisper prayers

not for perfect love,

but for tender mercy—

for spaces where hope

and longing meet

not to bind, but to caress.

Let us hold each other

not with iron hands,

but with open palms,

ready to catch

the fragile flight

of dreams

that fear to soar.

---

Why Do We Harbor Hate?

Why do we harbor hate

for those so close—

so close within our hearts?

If we can let desire breathe free,

then hatred

will find no home.

And in this quiet reckoning—

when hate dissolves like morning mist,

and longing is no longer weighed

by chains of fragile hope—

we find a tender stillness,

where hearts, unburdened, breathe as one.

Here, beneath the vast expanse of sky,

love is neither cage nor battlefield—

but a gentle river flowing free,

inviting all wounds to heal,

inviting all souls to rest,

and finally, to be whole

Why Do We Harbor Hate?

Why do we harbor hate

for those who dwell so close—

so close within the chambers

where our deepest longings rest?

Why, suddenly,

do they drift away,

fading like a whispered prayer

lost upon the wind,

so far from the embrace

of our yearning hearts?

Perhaps it is the weight—

the heavy weight of our own hopes,

like stones piled high on fragile dreams,

crushing the tender shoots

of desire before they bloom.

A chain begins—

no one knows from where—

this endless chain of expectations,

wrapping around our wishes

the moment they take breath.

And so, we test our longing—

measuring it

against the harsh scale of hope,

as if hope were the only truth

that could justify desire’s existence.

As long as our yearning

passes this cruel test,

hope’s venom cannot touch us,

and the garden of our desires

blooms in wild profusion.

But the moment the dark shadow

of expectation falls heavy—

silent, cold—

desire gasps and withers—

its fragile life snuffed out

beneath the blackened sky.

And from that stillness,

from the hollow left behind,

hatred is born—

bitter, sharp, and cruel—

a scar carved deep

where love once dared to live.

Why do we burden desire

with the weight of hope,

and expect it to soar,

when the chains pull it down,

binding wings

before they’ve learned to fly?

We gain nothing—

only lose the peace

that once filled the quiet places within,

as hope and longing clash,

wounding the heart’s soft core.

Let desire be free—

free to pulse and breathe

without the crushing hand of expectation.

Let it flutter like a fragile flame,

flickering, yet alive,

dancing with the light of possibility.

Bind desire only

where it cannot suffocate—

where it may struggle but not drown—

where it can pause,

retreat if it must,

without breaking.

If we learn this—

if we set desire gently free—

it will smile again,

and hatred will never take root,

never grow its thorny branches

in the garden of our hearts.

---

*Why do we harbor hate

for those so close,

so close within our hearts?

Let desire breathe free—

and hate will find no home.*