• Whose Steps Trail Yours?

    Whose Steps Trail Yours?

    Sifting through shadows,
    the phantom touch
    of what could be,
    you yearn for the intertwined fingers,
    the rhythm of two souls,
    marching in tandem.

    But there is this dance,
    that is an ancient truth,
    if it starts within.
    Are you joined in warmth,
    or just chasing illusions?
    Tethered to presence,
    or drifting in dreams?
    Can’t walk hand in hand,
    if you aren’t walking hand in hand.

    Thirty thousand sunrises,
    give or take a few thousand sunsets,
    the average span
    of a human dream,
    each with its own ache,
    its own wonder.
    Whose steps trail yours?
    Whose whispers do you hear?
    Chosen partner,
    or the shadow you cast alone?

    This trip,
    this never-ending scroll
    of awe and unknown,
    we name it life.
    And you,
    at the helm or riding shotgun,
    have your compass
    in the palm of your hand.

    How do you reach out?
    On what wavelength
    does your heart send?

  • The Unearthing

    The Unearthing

    The tendril,
    deep and dark;
    a secret thing,
    twisting in the earth.

    It feeds, silent,
    draws its strength
    from the unlit places
    of the heart, the mind.

    Wickedness,
    a hidden root,
    strong in its unseen grip.
    It binds, it strangles.

    But then,
    a flicker,
    a dawn.
    A light slips in
    through the earth.

    A recognition,
    a whisper,
    a name.
    The shadow is formed.

    And upon the touch of light,
    upon speaking of the name,
    the root shall quake.
    It shall shrink,
    it shall loosen.

    Dissolved.
    No longer a secret,
    no longer unseen.
    before the crush of its power,
    it withers.

    Revealed,
    it desiccates,
    it crumbles into dust.
    A memory of darkness,
    nothing more.

  • Masks and Desert Blooms

    Masks and Desert Blooms

    Cactus flowers unfold
    in the stark desert light,
    while chandeliers somewhere else
    weep crystal tears
    onto polished marble.

    Look closer,
    at those society crowns
    with gilded laurels.
    Some crave the roar of the crowd,
    their lives a parade shimmered
    by golden faucets trembling
    and manicured lawns,
    with every prop gleaming.

    Others wrap themselves
    in quiet studies,
    sipping the dust and dreams
    that veils the sun.

    They’ll chase the dark spotlight,
    where silent scripting exists
    beyond the masquerade ball flitting.
    Silks and sequins will be
    carefully constructed shells,
    a smile painted on
    to hide hollow ache within,
    the cavern echoing
    with unseen emptiness.

    But the humble ones,
    they’re the deep roots,
    the quiet breath of winds.
    Their truth unfurls
    in desert blooms,
    unfurling, genuine.

    When your spirit grazes
    the unworldly silk of the infinite,
    when the spark of imagination
    ignites like dry kindling,
    then you are remade,
    a sudden friction
    of light and shadow,
    a consciousness
    dreaming itself awake.

    An awe
    that expands the chest,
    scarier only
    if the heart is a closed fist.
    An echo of a single,
    resonant word
    from the canyon walls
    of existence.

  • Ecology of Souls

    Ecology of Souls

    The air croons
    with unspoken things,
    a vast, unseen web,
    like mycelium beneath the woods,
    binding every breath.

    The old man,
    still sitting on the bench,
    his eyes fixed in a cloud
    a distance away,
    adds to the silence shared,
    a root sipping slow knowledge.

    The elated dancer
    spinning, a blur of motion,
    releasing joy,
    a spurt of pollen,
    seeds carried on the wind,
    to fertilize forgotten corners.

    A child’s wild laughter,
    a sudden burst of light,
    shocks the grackles,
    and radiates out,
    contagiously undeniable.

    The mourning widow,
    a stone thrown
    into a calm lake,
    casts concentric circles of sorrow,
    that touch distant
    unseen shores.

    We are not islands,
    though we feel solitary,
    each thought, each feeling,
    a unique creature
    in a linked ecosystem,
    interdependent.

    The sharp word,
    a toxic spill,
    can taint the nearby stream.
    The gentle touch,
    a spring rain,
    nourishes the thirsty soil.

    And when one heart departs,
    it’s not an end, but a beginning,
    a shift, a transformation,
    the essence of existence
    returning
    to feed the earth
    of what remains.

    Continuous cycle,
    of giving and receiving,
    of blooming and fall,
    the ecology of souls,
    breathing in, breathing out,
    now and forever.

  • The Certain Uncertainty of Becoming

    The Certain Uncertainty of Becoming

    All that is good in life
    is not always better
    and not everything that is better
    is good.
    Risks and rewards
    are both good and bad
    at the same time,
    swaying in the equilibrium.

    True contentment
    is not mere acceptance
    but choice-choosing
    to step into the unknown.
    The true essence
    is not necessarily rooted
    in the certainty
    of what is visible,
    as much as it rests
    in embracing the uncertainty
    within every decision
    we dare to take.
    This is faith:
    a recognition and trust
    in the unseen,
    and the roles we play
    in this universe
    and in our existence.

    We are like a single cell
    in the body of the universe-
    an infinitesimal part,
    unseen, yet integral.
    Although small,
    we carry the essence of life,
    steering it on this course.
    We are participants
    and reflection of a universe-
    that creates,
    writing the story itself.
    Our lives are mirrors
    showcasing experiences back
    to the source or the higher forces,
    by which otherwise
    they might not sense it.

    The higher spirits send out
    their frequency signals
    to neither interfere
    nor react
    but rather to harmonize
    with the soul of being:
    a state untouched and untainted
    by the usual chaos of life.
    Let those who live
    engage with those living,
    and let beings connect
    with being.
    The gods we have created
    are ours and only our own;
    they are symbols
    of truths we seek
    and fears we cannot escape.

    We set them up ironically
    from our eclipse
    of inner light.
    Equally, every path goes somewhere,
    with them all together leading
    to an interconnected memory.
    Creation and submission
    are not opposites
    but parts of the same cycle.
    And those superior beings
    we imagine exist
    only because we dared
    to romance them into being.
    They act as a reminder
    of our capacity to co-create
    as well as to be co-created
    by the vast universe.
    The observer observes
    the creator
    so that the creator
    can be.
    The universe is
    a lucid dream, alive
    because we are.

    Every step we take,
    every decision we make,
    tallies on the infinite
    weave of life.
    There is meaning
    in walking a path
    only because walking one
    reveals more of who
    we already are.
    We realize the complexity
    of living our stains,
    in that we live
    in our perishableness
    and touch upon
    growing infinity.
    We so casually are named
    moments of eternity.
    We are, yet we move
    across the boundlessness,
    our actions spreading
    a broad ripple across it.

    To truly live is
    to accept this paradox
    as it unfolds-
    a paradox of uncertainty
    and the interconnectedness of life.
    To find peace
    not in certainty
    but in the vulnerable mystery
    of existence.
    This is where authentic contentment
    shines; it becomes alive,
    dynamic, and anchored
    in every breath
    and in the awareness
    that every moment
    holds the potential for
    creation and connection.
    Contentment fills meaning
    into imagination.

    We are the creators
    of meaning
    and the architects
    of experiences.
    The gods we quest for
    are within us,
    born of our togetherness, longings,
    fears, and aspirations.
    We are those making;
    for the act of creating,
    choosing, we adhere
    to the eternal dance of life.

    This dance also teaches
    that the way is truth.
    The beauty of life lies
    in the whole journey-
    not in the moments
    when that journey attains
    its end.
    In every step, breath,
    and moment of faith
    that carries us out
    of the cave,
    there is a hazy beauty
    waiting to unfold.
    We aren’t entirely there;
    we are just cyclists
    in a state of infinite becoming.
    And in becoming,
    we are already whole.

  • Today

    Today

    Today,
    if your heart
    is still heavy
    with the burden
    of unspoken words,
    let them go,
    for their only home
    is the open sky,
    like birds
    from their cages.

    Let the truth
    take wings today,
    free of fear,
    free from shame.
    Wings of honesty
    will take you
    to the life
    you are
    meant to claim.

    If today,
    you look
    into the mirror
    and see a self
    you hardly recognize,
    break that facade,
    and give rise
    to your authenticity.

    Let all
    that has been
    false
    grow thin,
    the masks
    you have
    learned to wear,
    so that today,
    in this sacred moment,
    your essence
    can finally bare.

    If the road behind
    is rife with potholes
    of regrets
    and ill-spent time,
    today,
    pave a path forward,
    up the mountain
    you were meant to climb.

    Make each step
    dotted with courage.
    At the top
    may be that
    profound peace
    which can only be
    reached
    by those who welcome
    themselves wholly,
    and today’s courageous
    choices.

    Today,
    your presence is a gift
    to everyone you touch.

    Today,
    write yourself into being.
    Right now,
    in this very moment,
    your future can
    still blossom into
    a limitless horizon
    of possibilities
    if you dare enter
    your heart’s
    treasure room.

    So today and now,
    simply promise
    to live,
    awake and true.
    And today, this day,
    closest,
    will hear
    tomorrow’s gaze.

    Today,
    be the cause,
    become a word.

  • The Release

    The Release

    In morn’s pleasant aroma,
    with gentle breathing,
    I released the burden,
    a shadow companion,
    not of the world,
    but whirled in my head,
    a being of my own making.

    No irons bound me,
    clutching fast,
    but threads of thought,
    so tightly spun,
    today I let them loosen
    from their hold,
    to drift beyond
    the mind’s own edges.

    The skies,
    a wide and unsealed canvas,
    no longer stained
    by “what may be.”

    The trees
    whirled wildly in the gust,
    and I, at last,
    was given sweet release.

    For anxiety,
    that foul specter,
    was no more than breath,
    pale and dim,
    a play I’d written,
    a story I’d spun.

    Today,
    I tear those yellowed pages in two.

    And where dread had sat,
    there is a garden,
    its tale told
    not in the icy grip
    of “what might be,”
    but in the radiance of
    “here, with me.”

  • The Thought Architect

    The Thought Architect

    The thought unrolls, a tender leaf,
    uncurling in the dim light of what is.
    But—what is?

    A construction, they tell us.
    Spun from threads of notice,
    dyed with hues of credence.

    This space, these walls,
    hard to the hand,
    yet viewed, interpreted, known
    only through the prism within.

    A shift there, a subtle re-tilting,
    and the light falls differently.
    Shadows stretch or shrink.
    The texture of the wall
    softens,
    or sharpens into new distinctness.

    If the mind,
    this silent architect,
    can raise these thresholds,
    can it not also bring them down?

    To redraw the blueprint,
    erase the lines etched deep
    by habit, by fear, by expectation.

    To choose a new palette,
    brush strokes of possibility
    upon the canvas of the day.

    The weight you carry,
    that unseen burden,
    may lighten or lift
    with one re-imagined breath.

    The world waits,
    formless and fluid,
    for the shaping of your eye.
    Change the mind, they say
    and see the world re-arrange.

  • Who’s Watching

    Who’s Watching

    Though status, faith,
    or class may seem
    to set us far apart,
    the common thread of error
    marks us,
    star by star.
    Each falters in a fashion
    uniquely their own.
    And this shared imperfection?
    It’s a truth
    we’ve always known.

    It is natural.
    No one’s past
    is a single color.
    No one’s present
    is one-dimensional.
    And no one’s future
    comes without a choice.

    Meaning is learned.
    Reality—chosen.
    A path is formed
    by the vibration
    of consciousness,
    its frequency.

    The story unfolds
    as one of witness—
    probabilities realized.

    The observer
    is observed.
    The observed
    is the observer.