Tag: Poems and Lyrics

I walk the wide arc of the world,
streets are circling under my feet.
Faces turn like a slow wheel of days,
every step a repeating beat.

I trace the curve of years,
closer, closer still—
all the lines are bending in,
to the centre of my will.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,
pulling me straight to the core.
Every circle falls into silence,
and I don’t wander anymore.
Narrow, still,
it all comes down to you.

Shadows stretch, then fold away,
time unwinds but I stay drawn.
Every road I tried to follow
was a thread that led me on.

I trace the curve of years,
closer, closer still—
all the echoes call me back,
to the one place I can fill.

The path bends tight, coil by coil,
pulling me straight to the core.
Every circle falls into silence,
and I don’t wander anymore.
Narrow, still,
it all comes down to you.

No distance left, no veil, no sound,
just the gravity of your name.
The wheel is broken, the arc is bound—
I arrive where I began.

A universe rests

on the wrist of night,

no larger than a bead

threaded by time’s thin wire.

 

It clinks softly

against its neighbours—

a cluster of fireflies

framed in glass,

their wings folded in silence.

 

You might mistake it

for ornament,

something small enough

to slip between fingers;

yet tilt it in the light

and you’ll see whole galaxies

burning in miniature,

Nebulae tilting blue,

and a scatter of supernovas

Singing their names.

 

The thread loops on,

uncountable,

an armlet of eternities—

and you,

for a fleeting moment,

the body it encircles.

Song version:

In the cathedral of damp earth

I stretch my fingers, groping,

following the dark’s slow music.

 

Stone is my scripture,

worms my witnesses.

I drink the memory of rain,

the taste of centuries in loam.

 

Above me,

a hymn of light is breaking.

Its pulse beats

through the bones of soil—

a shiver of warmth,

a wind I cannot touch.

 

I ache upwards in secrecy,

cradled by silence,

longing for the sky’s shifting face:

its unburdened blue,

its storm-bright wings,

its fever of stars.

 

Until then,

I press against dark,

hoarding the rain,

listening for sky.

Song version:

Cradled in the ancient murmur,

we are archives of fire:

helixes folded as choirs,

each base a note,

each spiral a score

composed in the silence.

Listen closely—

your skin sings hydrogen,

your marrow chants iron,

your lungs rehearse

the vocabulary of stars.

What we call solitude

is crowded with voices:

the background whisper

of a universe still cooling,

and the chorus inside us

that refuses to forget

how to sing.

Song version:

It squats there,

a stubborn, chrome-bellied thing—

water pooled in its gut,

silent, sulking.

 

I press the switch,

red eye glaring back,

but the element hums with disdain,

no steam, no promise of warmth.

 

So I lean close,

murmur small consolations:

you are patient,

you are bright as the morning,

you will sing again.

 

At first, nothing.

Then a tremor,

the faintest sigh—

and suddenly a rising chatter,

bubbles shouldering upward:

a chorus of forgiven grievances.

 

And now I wonder

how many small appliances sulk,

waiting for words

I’ve never thought to give.

The Ministry owns every syllable.

The fountain sings freely, water speaking for us.

A brass meter ticks on my throat, a clock wound too tight.

I come to hear it, because it says what we cannot.

Most have grown spare: clipped commands, no confessions.

I have grown used to nods, to eyes speaking instead of mouths.

But I am a poet. Silence is a storm caged in my ribs.

I have watched her: ink bruising her fingers, silence like thunder waiting.

Once I spent a week’s bread on one word: Careful.

Once she gave me Careful—I held it like a jewel, a bell ringing inside me.

Now three coins jingle in my pocket: life or confession.

I feel her coming, choosing me over survival.

I press them into the slot. The gears release. Three words only.

I cannot afford reply. Silence burns in my throat.

At last I speak: Without you, nothing.

Her words strike like fire. My bottle overflows. My hand trembles.

Tomorrow they will come for me, to gag me, to strip me of voice.

Tomorrow they will take her—but tonight I smile, slow and certain.

Three coins spent. Eternity bought.

Her words, my silence—together, unowned, ours.