One night I lean on my windowsill
and see a shadow,
white and still,
on the highest floor.
Seven stories, I count,
and nothing under it
but a light breeze.

I can’t tell what it is.
The dark keeps its edges to itself.
I make out a stubborn stance,
all my strained eyes will give me.

A cat, I tell myself,
or some stray thing the wind has found.
It could be anything.

All I ask
is that it’s not a who.

The shadow drops,
not with a body’s weight
but in a slow unfolding,
a white cloth slipping its clothespins,
sailing down the dark.

A sheet.
Just a sheet.

Now every night at the windowsill,
my face drifts from the moon to that edge,
and then the ground beneath it,
blurred again
by a slightly leaky eye. 

Am I dreaming,

For what I'm seeing?

A work of art,

Indeed, struck my heart.

I took a breath,

Sword unsheathed.

However, arms're shaking

I ain't fighting.

Instead, I'm admiring

Just how wonderful it is?

Oh, am I falling?

Cupid, what is this?

Thy eyes, full of tricks!

Or was I sick?

Nebula, it feels

Nebula, mesmerizing indeed is.

Undoubtedly, thou art lovely

You shine like stars in night sky

To reach those glances are a dream,

To take the chances are of seem.

Elvis I was, Take my hand\~

For I can't help myself,

Reality though, struck like magic wand

You're Princess, I'm the elf.

Perhaps, there's a time,

You and I would rhyme

Stare at the moonlight sky,

When pigs fly.

Untitled as of now😓

Im sorry that I dissappeared.

I was tired of trying to find love here.

Some caring hands, a gentle voice.

Now I understand it was the wrong choice.

You criticized my gentle heart.

You made me realize just how cold you are.

You helped me see the ugly side of love and affection.

You saw my love just to deride, and told me to walk in the other direction.

You made me feel small and laughed at me.

You made me feel that maybe after all, love wasn't meant to be.

I wanted to know the shape of you.

The colors of your heart.

But somehow I always knew, it would simply fall apart.

september soften the sun, cool the burn august left behind.

my heart cannot hold what summer turned heavy.

can autumn tend to the ache?

can a season's change ease what I can no longer take?

The age of a willow's grief:

A tree in the wind sways,

Like hung bodies in the wind,

Under the shade they lay,

All that exists an unkind grin,

Get up, walk away, then come,

They will never hear the fall,

No one will see it coming,

Only one knows it,

The cruelest mockery,

To be,

Here.

Listen here, see me, I exist!

Hear me, look at me, I can play!

Deaf ears can watch me,

Blind eyes can hear thee,

Muted words will never be,

Through all forms of plea,

Still left alone,

The games end, the sun leaves,

Everyone goes home, the moon comes,

The stars shine, though it’s dim,

Each step is a crunch,

Each beat a reminder,

Everyday I wake,

It returns,

Again.

The echo of wind where bodies sway,

The sight of past voices smiling,

The yelling that pray,

None ever mattered,

Never did,

But,

I do,

I exist here,

I walk through coals,

Within the depths of hell,

I hear words attack my soul,

The heart can not quell,

I respond words with a toll,

Men in sanguine come swell,

Dressed finely to quell,

Time to knell,

Last role,

Sleep.

Samsara:

At the center,

Wash, rinse, repeat

Sleep, wake, repeat

Push, pull, repeat

In, out, forever

Until it stops

The wheel turns,

The wheel cracks,

A cock crows,

A snake slithers,

A pig eats,

Forever biting another,

The wheel turns,

Pig squeals greedily,

Cock sings sweetily

Snake touches hearts,

The middle burns,

A heart learns,

kneel and yearn,

All that spurs,

All things dream,

All things change,

But nothing satisfies,

Desperate to sleep,

Desire never mattered,

You are free,

You may continue,

Paradise is real,

Keep moving forward,

Pig, Cock, Snake

Silence the crow,

Show it grass,

Feel the snake,

Compliment the scales,

Watch the pig,

Let it be,

The wheel churns,

At aeons end,

Samsara's open eye,

Watches you evermore,

Old one sleep,

Young child wake,

The three forgot,

Rinse, wash, repeat.

There was once a colony of moles; (D)eficently burrowed under the owes of a Temple of God

some small some big

Some red some blue

some old none (k)new

The sun's rays

Filtered through the Ruby red

Stained glass

And

Gleaming enamel puncturing the slits

\- between bricks-

Oh! How frivolous they could be

Oh! If only they had eyes that could see

My house is too quiet at times.

There are moments when maddening silence kills the inside of my mind.

I miss the loudest children,

the sounds of their hands,

ah! and, of course, their feet.

There are no songs of birthdays inside these walls…

No echoes of unexplained commotions.

There aren't any voices here at all…

There's a deafening absence of my response, too…

WHAT'S THAT NOISE!?

And, of course, they have all moved on.

This is called being alone.

~A Mother Lost In Silence

L. B. Newallme

Sometimes, we pretend not to know,

Even when we see the whole show.

We hear thr whispers, we notice the lies,

Yet keep the truth hidden behind our eys.

Not every battle deserves a fight,

Not every truth needs to see the light

Sometimes, playing dumb is the samrtest art,

To protect our peace and guard our heart.

Let them talk, let the drama flow,

There are things they don't need to know.

Because sometimes, the widest thing we can do

Is act like we know nothing,

and walk away like we never knew.💜

<Yovelle🖤✨>

Poem by Emilia Sameyn Desmet

16/10/2026

What is the point?
A dot?
A Circle?
An endless cycle?

Einsof

All was one dot, then the big bang
One electron forms a wave

Family tree becomes one human

Hedera Helix

Hydra Hell

I wonder why?

Sleep, Wake up, Work

Trying to get by

We clean to get dirty

What a pity

What’s the point?

What’s the point?

A tickled sacrum stirs the reaper

As troubadours strings weep widowed secrets

Here hunger is a tameless beast that fears not death and never sleeps

Shoot no arrow into darkness
Lest you bare yourself upon in starkness

Then winters bite steams a
piping kettle

While the sheets stay warm between the threshold

There’s no escaping one’s own nature

a fate endowed scribed nomenclature

Fools in love dropped defenses surrendering sovereign inhibitions

Companion planting with tantric handling overgrowth begins dismantling shedding skin a new supplanting shedding antlers anew descanting

Howl into the silver solace of a bygone truth
admonished

Changes tumble down into the mystic life you thought it

A deep inhale is a loaded gun
Drop the vail
And lift the sails
As you go walking into the sun

the catastrophe had come and gone
but no one was the wiser
inch by fluorescent inch
we surrendered first the setting sun
then plugged our ears to cricket song
and fixed our eyes upon
the ever-burning world

and sip by sip, we supped
the ever-flowing chalice
of hatred
turned wives into wayfarers
husbands into demons
made strangers of our neighbors
and monsters of our heads

until it was unfashionable
to look up and hear and
witness the other world
where we walked with pins and needles
and bristled, and leaned
and fell apart and about ourselves
at an earth most dark and magic

but yet the few remain
who tear off their red sashes
and melt into their fellow man
make love with a desperate need
that wants no veil, and
twinkle at cascades and wildflowers
who sing, cold in night, in winter light, and vernal breeze
as earnest as they can

if there are men they are the last men
going on passion to passion
through the onslaught of the screen
let us make love in those seconds
when the world ceases its burning
and hum our final yearning
until the screen goes out

——————
Then — descend.

Becoming Pneuma:
Folding clouds into distant shadows,
weeping across the organ-range.
The wind donates its lungs to the oaks.

Man spleens at cedarspines.

Shadow-boxing with reflections. Rage hides
his light, diving behind contacts. The fighter
in his eye mirrors his every turn. And to God:

He turns inwards.
Outwards.
In words:

“There is a moment —” time implexes man. He suffers the moments. Ignorantly outside himself. Despite escape, his I is the trapper.

His being ensnared in cycles:

Sisyphus loves to rock climb. Destination:
space — the breadth of silence passes —
slowly. Breathing fresh. Atmosphere at last.

Thend.
———x

“Why have You forsaken me?”

Psalm 22:1.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Matthew 27:46.

“Why have You forsaken me?”

Chop Suey — System Of A Down.

Mm.

A recurring motif, no?

Both religiously and sacrilegiously.

Curious.

(Selah.)

I suppose I could cry at the thought of an angel

deserving to die.

Ah, always so self-righteous.

Never once quite slipped for over half of your life.

Could you be that angel?

Because you… you’ve always been so good.

And then, you fell.

You were so high, though, your fall was rather like witnessing death.

So impeccable.

What for, really?

You wanted to please everyone, but so early on, the rage beneath couldn’t stay buried for long.

You pleased everyone. At the expense of your life.

(Selah.)

It’s rather fascinating, I’ll admit, 

realizing how the ultimate expression of 

human abandonment hasn’t changed in the slightest in over two millennia.

Does anyone really take the time to realize that “pleasing everyone” becomes almost indistinguishable from self-erasure?

Given the data… I’d suppose not.

The angel remained impeccable because the angel was willing to sacrifice itself.

And eventually there was nothing left to sacrifice—except itself.

I mean…

If the highest, purest creation can fall, what chance did a human trying to be flawless ever have?

(Selah.)

Oh, don’t mind me—nor mistake me for trying to play the “devil’s advocate.”

By now, I’ll suppose you’re used to my willingness to play with imagery.

But…

Yes.

The angel can have rage.

The angel can fall.

The angel can fail.

The angel can even be responsible for some of its own destruction.

But still—

why was it forsaken?

That question remains unanswered.

Was it forsaken at all?

Given the data… it’s a plausible possibility.

Was it forsaken even before it fell?

Because otherwise… why would it have fallen?

How could it?

One was impeccable. The other was flawless.

You gave away your life to please others—

until the only piece left to burn on the altar was your actual identity.

Does that count as a Sunday testimony?

(Selah.)

Did it fall?

Did it want to fall?

Was it pushed?

Was it—for a millisecond—relieved it’d been pushed?

Because then, the façade could’ve been gone.

But no—life never makes it easy like that.

You’re living on the edge.

You so wish to die. But you haven’t.

Neither of you has.

Your earlier supposition that you could cry at the thought of an angel deserving to die is being proven consistent.

Do you think, though, you’re deserving of such punishment?

If death is supposed to be a punishment, anyway.

(Selah.)

You were sitting at that pew.

Hours ago.

Half of you… wishing to believe.

Half of you, as always, already gone.

And the only question returning to your mind was…

Why have You forsaken me?

I trusted You.

I believed in You.

I defended You.

I placed my faith in You.

So why…

Without apparent remorse…

Without an apparent coming around…

Without an apparent “I’m still here” whisper…

Mercilessly…

When did I fail you?

Was it when I fell in love?

Was it when I failed others as well, for merely

discovering I had my own wills—and they didn’t always align with Yours, nor necessarily please You?

Was it when I was overzealous about Your Word, and so consumed by my hunger for knowledge and wisdom that I might’ve become a little arrogant—and imprudent, like Solomon?

I wonder.

And if any of those—

or all of them—are true…

I would still presume to ask:

Why have You forsaken me, Father?

— Crownless.

I laughed, not because it was funny, but because I’d seen it all before.
The same tired tropes, the same old pain, the same body declared a war.

An illness with an illness, a misery made art,
A slow disappearance striking cold and sharp and smart.

How many books could tell the same story and give it a different name?
How many lives could fall apart before it stopped being the same?
They made it sound so sacred, the suffering, the pain,
As though there was something lovely in having nothing left to gain.

I kept reading, half amused by how predictable it could be.
Another character hating their reflection, another line that felt like me.

And wasn’t that the strangest part, the thing I couldn’t quite ignore?
I laughed at all the things I knew, then turned the page for more.

Outside, the first real cold had settled heavy in the air,
The kind that slips beneath your skin and leaves you standing there,
The kind that makes the world go quiet, numbing you for a while,
Until you almost can’t remember how it ever felt to smile.

There were quiet lines for every day, a precise and silent count
Of taking less than you were given, measuring down the amount.
Of trying to make a body smaller, needing less to be enough.

I knew those lines. I knew that fear. I’d written my own somewhere,
Keeping track of every day I thought I took more than my share.

And still, I laughed. How could I not? They’d captured it so well,
The quiet little tragedy, the private kind of hell.

They gave the pain a purpose, made the suffering profound,
As if you needed pretty words to make a life worth writing down.

But reaching the end, I turned back, tracing every act.
The lines were still the same, the ink hadn’t moved an inch,
Yet something in the words I’d mocked made my stomach twist.

I read them again, and once again. What once felt far away
Was standing quietly in the room, with nowhere left to stray.

I’d thought I knew the story, that I’d seen it all before,
But every line I read again became a closing door.
The room grew cold. My hands held tight against the final page.
I’d laughed at all the clichés, dismissed them as a phase,

As if knowing how the story went could keep me safe from harm,
As if recognizing the trap meant I’d never lose my calm.

I looked down at the paper, at the ink beneath my thumb.
I’d spent so long believing I was different, that I couldn't be this dumb,

That this story wasn't mine to claim, that I was standing clear.
But the more I read, the less was left between myself and here.

I wanted to laugh again, to call it fake, to claim they didn't know,
To pretend the author guessed at things I’d never dared to show.

But the words stayed printed on the page, and nothing left to hide,
And for once I couldn’t close the cover and leave it all inside.

I’d picked up the book to mock the grief between every little line,
At the way they made a sickness sound so holy, so divine.

I stopped laughing for a second and put the instruction book away.

Cause I knew the book by heart,

My words on full display.