Philosophical Poetry

The Soul's Canvas

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  • 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.

  • Stubborn Grace

    Stubborn Grace

    A stubborn beast
    with its feet firmly planted
    in the muddy field
    of my own errors.

    Anguish is a dense fog
    that swirls, blinds, and steals
    the recognizable features
    of my own soul.

    The birdsong was a distant,
    inaudible hum,
    and fingers brushed
    against petals
    that had once been vibrant
    but were now dull and quiet.

    Indeed, forgiveness is a river
    that churns through rocky terrain,
    a constant murmur
    against jagged edges,
    finds the yielding ground,
    and forges a new path.

    Or rain, a gentle veil
    dissolving the grime
    that adheres to my skin,
    a clean canvas waiting
    for a fresh day.

    Seasons change, my friend,
    leaves unfold, then fall,
    and the only thing that
    accompanies this long journey
    is the steady, slow rhythm
    of our own two feet—
    possibly a shimmering wand.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.

  • Doors

    Doors

    If there are many doors,
    not closed yet,
    then how can you,
    enter through
    a new door,
    and see the
    new horizon?

    Filed under: 🜃 Infinite – exploring the unseen forces behind creation, truth, and existence.

  • An Aprioric Perspicaciousness

    An Aprioric Perspicaciousness

    White paper and a pen
    wish for me,
    on a birthday of many returns
    passed, yet to come.
    So a thought I will,
    and a thought
    I may, descend
    into self,
    my self-maintained, renewed self,
    my pattern of self.
    Together and with,
    I feel out
    an infinite creativity,
    I do now
    experience my stability.

    Ever change,
    never never.
    Am.
    I am dependent,
    Yet I am identified.

    One in once.
    Always a memory,
    always a surprise.

    Scenes change,
    familiar feelings.
    Known to life,
    stranger to my own.
    Allowed to feel all,
    but not my own.
    Hold on
    known stranger, hold on.
    I hold on to my breath.
    I hold on.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.