The pulse once strong now beats so frail, Beneath the chest, a hollow tale. Where laughter lived, the silence stays, A weight descends and clouds all days. The eyes that sought a guiding flame, Now find the void, no warmth to claim. Each breath a shard, each beat a thief, That drags the soul through endless grief. The world moves on, yet joy has fled, The sky turns grey, the heart f...

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We carry wounds which no one sees, Stripped bare by the world's quiet indifference. A life lost, forgotten by time's cruel hands, Moments of sorrow fade beneath others' noise. A bomb bursts, its weight unseen, And the rubble settles—no one comes to mourn. We sit with our aching bodies, Alone in a world that turns its back. A sickness takes root, And the world moves on—too busy, too ...

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The Path of Immortality explores the timeless journey of the atoms that compose us, weaving together the origins of life from stardust to the cycles of death and rebirth. As we grieve the loss of loved ones, this poem offers solace, reminding us that no part of them is truly lost. Their atoms continue to shape the world, giving rise to new life in ways unseen. It is a gentle reminder that we are a...

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David sat in his childhood room, the stack of letters trembling in his hands. Each one was a window into his mother’s heart—a heart he had taken for granted. Her words, so full of love and longing, cut through the years of silence between them.

He found a letter dated ten years earlier. It spoke of her hope to see him at Christmas. He hadn’t come that year. Another letter, written five years ag...

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Evelyn sat by the window, her frail hands clutching a pen. Outside, snow blanketed the empty street, muffling the world in silence. The house was still except for the faint ticking of a clock, marking moments that felt too long and too short all at once.

She stared at the blank sheet of paper on the desk before her. For years, she'd written to her son, David. She’d sent birthday cards, Christma...

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Beneath the aching winter’s shroud,

A child walked mute through the bustling crowd.

Her feet, bare whispers on the frozen stone,

Her ribs a harp of hunger’s tone.

 

She carried a box, her treasure, her thread

Of tiny star-sticks, sulfur-fed.

She called to the rich, the hurried, the gray,

“Buy one, kind sir, and light your way.”

 

But no one paused, no coin was tossed,

...

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