And if all words
aren't enough to describe
how much I love you.
I'd use my blood as an ink to this pen.
For you to know,
that even if I have nothing to write.
The poetry written
within me,
is you.

I feel like I’m alone in a library with no guide,
the silence pressing in,
the words on the pages a reminder
that I can’t connect to anything.
The book I’m reading is losing its meaning,
the plot unraveling
with each sentence I try to understand.
And I wonder,
if I keep reading,
will the ending ever come?
Or is this story one
that doesn’t have a finish,
one that leaves me lost in its endless chapters?

I stray
on purpose
my will
redeemed

When left
of center
to swim
upstream

Against
the grain
my future
hides

On roads
less traveled
past times
— divide

(The New Room: December, 2024)

Your voice
becomes a shadow
breathless
aft the fall

Whose words
deform in Satan’s grace
speechless
— yet they call

(Dreamsleep: 12-19-2024)

Tending anger’s
raging garden
seeds lie
burnt and dire

Each fiery breath
a vine ensnares
with thorns
of ****** ire

Tending anger’s
furrowed hate
with vehement
acclaim

A tirade lost
within the rows
of dark
— unending pain

(The New Room: December, 2024)