In twilight lands where echoes gleam,
A sun is stitched from shards of dream.
The rivers flow with liquid light,
And stars converse in silent night.

Beneath a moon of sapphire flame,
The trees all speak.  but none the same.
Their roots entwine like ancient lore,
To guard a glass and breathing shore.

A castle floats on airless tide,
Where time forgets to turn or bide.
Its halls are lined with books that hum..
Their pages born of thought, not thumb.

The sky is green, the ground is gold,
And gravity obeys the bold.
A world unseen by mortal eye,
Yet touched in sleep when spirits fly.

So close your mind, and drift unchained.
To where the laws of fate are strained.
A whisper waits, soft-spoken, terse
Somewhere deep in a mirrored universe.

Desperation smudges the
window pane of my soul,
so I reach for my
Existentialist Windex.
Squinting, the ammonia
forces me to consciously
relax my upper lip—
so it doesn’t curl
in disgust.
But the sting of knowing—
no amount of wiping,
no matter how I
scrub, or sanitize, or sand,
sand and sand and sand—
sand down to molten heat,
let saline liquid cool sand
into glass—
it’s still just transparent;
transparent enough to watch
myself,
reflected,
listening to the
hollowed whining
of circles smeared
into the same old smudge.

I invite you, Water.
Douse this searing fire.
Quench what is scorched.
Soothe what is cauterized,
picked raw, and researed
in the heat of forgetting.

Let scabs decompose to mud.
Let me be Earth--
steady, grounded, whole.

Yet I am Wind,
caught in flame,
lifting embers before they cool,
scattering what was,
before it settles into dust.

I met her at the lamppost
Where the sidewalk meets the road

She told me that
This smile cuts her in
All the places I cannot see

And I ache to show her the scars
That litter my body
Like the cracks
Under our feet

These bittersweet memories
Cannot be bottled

Yet here I am
Drunk off the past

And is that pressure in her chest rot
Or a certain sort of healing?

just you and me,
tucked in midnight's fold,
sharing the day
in murmurs only we hear

He gave her orchids, not roses, not flame—
But quiet things, with roots that cling
To silent bark, and bloom in shade—
The way he loved, unseen.

She smiled like spring, but loved like wind,
Passing through without regret.
He stayed like dusk, holding the light,
Even as the sun forgets.

The others brought tangerines, bright and sweet,
Sun-kissed and easy to hold—
But he only offered orchids, slow to bloom,
In a language too patient, too old.

She never saw how he watered hope,
In a garden she never walked.
How he learned to speak her silences,
And answered when she never talked.

He watched her dance with summer hearts,
Each one burning out too soon—
Yet still, he kept the orchids near,
Blooming beneath a winter moon.

No final scene, no curtain fall,
No music swelled, no kiss—
Just him and orchids, year by year,
Tending love that she won’t miss.

Despite all this, always smiling
His love for her, unwavering.


Erennwrites