I wonder—
do the trees feel empty in winter,
like abandoned cathedrals with hollowed arches,
their prayers carried off by wind?
Do they mourn the once-gold choir of leaves,
or do they wait—
hands lifted in quiet faith,
hope braided into their roots
like a forgotten hymn?

Does the moon know she is not always whole?
That we love her in pieces—
when she is a shard of silver,
a lost earring in the sky.
Does she ache, too,
a lantern adrift in a sea of indifference,
admired but never held?

There is beauty, I think,
in what is missing—
in the pause before bloom,
in the ache of becoming.
The tree, the moon—
they teach us how to stay
even when we are not full.

Maybe they know.
Maybe they don’t.
But still—they remain.
And maybe that is enough.

A few thoughts—like wild dogs—run,
Snarling, sprinting, none in unison.
One walks wrapped in quiet reckoning,
Another leaps from the shadows—unannounced.
Serious faces in the gathering of silent aches,
While jesters sneak in, stealing peace.

He walks—a slow tide at sundown,
Breeze in chest, no ripple in sight.
But beneath—magma hums lullaby,
Cradling fury like a sleeping child.
Cool eyes, volcanic veins,
A storm rehearsing in a candle’s calm.

Family—his driftwood and his anchor.
The balm and the blister.
They lull him with laughter,
Then jolt him with a sigh too long,
A silence too sharp.

And yet—
There is a place.
Not drawn on maps or etched in stone.
Where scattered thoughts find their rest.
Where the mind exhales what it held too long.
There—he folds into himself,
A silent hymn of peace.
Not even or odd.
Just still.
Just enough.
...

But the world claws back—
A phone buzz, a sigh across the hall,
The clink of plates, a missed stare,
Little things—
Each one a thread in the tapestry of turmoil.

He smiles. Sometimes wide. Sometimes just enough
To not break.
His voice—a riverbed in drought,
Holding the shape of past floods.

The night asks questions.
Why do shoulders carry what the soul can’t name?
Why does love sometimes bruise,
Even when it’s trying to heal?

Yet still—he finds it.
That sacred place.
Maybe it’s a song only he hears,
A far away place deep in nature, unknown
Or perhaps, it’s just the breath
Between two thoughts—
Where nothing aches, and nothing burns.

Here—
Even the chaos kneels.
The fire sleeps under wet earth.
And the day, whether odd or even,
Slows…
To a whisper.



Susanta Pattnayak

How do you explain this—
When you love to be alone, yet are haunted by loneliness?
The silence becomes louder than a screaming heart.
Whispers fill the mind while the soul feels unbearably heavy.

Even when surrounded by millions of people,
The mind still feels like a vacuum.
Life becomes a useless desire, and people always exasperate me.

The ghost of silence haunts me so horribly that I lose my real self.
I long to escape this reality—
To fall out of existence.
Yet I fail so hopelessly and miserably,
And finally, I let myself wither in the emptiness of this world.

it
i
it remains empty, so empty.
would you write into it endlessly,
would you writhe inside of it fervently
please ugly please

i said, would you wear my shoes
you said no, you have never used such shoes, you don’t imagine you can
and i said well that’s good
wear this hat then, i said
i will walk with you in the scorching sun, maybe offer you shade
you said no, you got to make appearances
would you read my soul, i asked
you said - no, it’s not what i read
i said okay, what if i give my shoes, hats, soul, blood and flesh
no you said, you don’t feel like it
okay, i said, i’ll write everything down then
but i restrained the spill,
until my body was full of perforations

some days i mourn the death of stars,
some days i forget to mourn the dreams i massacred
both days i tell you nothing about it

somedays i mourn the death of stars,
some days i forget to mourn the dreams i massacred

both days i know i can tell no one anything about it
and i didn’t, but it seems like the end

so what if i erupted out all my infections.

I wish I could expell
This wild beast from my chest,
This bottomless well,
Merciless tempest.
.
It roars and screams
For things it can't get:
Insubstantial dreams,
Uncollected debt.
.
And it isn't fair
That efforts mean naught;
When all is laid bare -
Love can't be bought.
.
I long and I ache,
At the mercy of fate,
Its give and take,
The cruelest bait.
.
The suffocating need
To not be alone,
Unrelenting greed,
Scathing to the bone.
.
It rakes its claws deep
Through my ribcage,
Makes me weep,
Helpless with rage.
.
Its loathsome fury,
Feral with want,
My judge and jury,
Inescapable haunt.
.
And it makes me think
That it's you I'm missing,
But it's really that link,
That has me reminiscing.
.
And I tried with such ardor
To find it once more,
But it's getting harder,
And my soul is sore.
.
Tired of hoping
And letdowns, in vain,
Tired of coping
With this constant pain.
.
If I were not godless
Surely I would pray
To finally convalesce,
To just get away.
.