Author: poetryfest

The sky is dark and vast.
Wrapped around Gaia like a sad, dark cast.
Raindrops fall like silent tears.
The sound not reaching our ears.
Leaves rustle gently in the breeze.
Wind that sounds more like a wheeze.
The sun blocked off by vast darkness.
The wind lashes out with such harshness.
The animals hide in fear of death.
The world goes quiet and holds its breath.
A darkness that grows and never leaves.
A world that goes and silently grieves.

In battles fought on foreign land,
I stand here weary, sword in hand.
For duty calls, I must obey,
But my soul weeps, day by day.
A soldier’s life, a heavy load,
A lament that cannot be foretold.
With every step, the ground I tread,
I carry memories of the fallen dead.
The horrors witnessed, burned in my mind,
Their faces etched, forever entwined.
Friends and comrades, forever lost,
Their sacrifice, at such a cost.
In the darkest nights, I hear their cries,
Echoes of pain that won’t subside.
I close my eyes, and see their faces,
A haunting reminder of war’s dark traces.
I long for peace, for tranquil days,
Where swords can rest, and hearts can raise.
But until then, I’ll press on strong,
For my duty insists, I can’t be wrong.
Yet deep within, a soldier cries,
Hoping for peace before he dies.
For in the end, it’s love we seek,
Not war and violence, but solace meek.
So let us pray for a world at peace,
Where conflict ends, and hatred cease.
May soldiers find solace in the end,
Forever mourned, but never forgotten, my friend.

Fingers fish hooked
the corners of my mouth
pried my eyes open
by the lashes
and from my throat
died a curdled yelp

my body pushed backward through itself
into the chilled surface
fingernails bending
failing to grasp a hold
through the blending
white and purple lights

odious gray men
prodded me
tightened the straps
on my naked body
rocked
in gooseflesh

they shoved my gurney
in a white cylindrical chamber
humming and whirling
and bolted the hatch

I saw the flames
lick my body
the silhouettes
past my screaming
of the little men
wide eyed and cheering

Ever loved a man so bad,
Then realized he took advantage of the love you had?
But it’s okay, I’m loving myself more than I did in the past.
I’m not trying to bash, it’s all love,
Just thinking why I accepted
What I allowed in the past.
Still disgusted when I think of when he spit in my face
And treated me like trash.
I don’t want sympathy, just venting, because I’m still
Healing from trauma that hasn’t passed.
I didn’t love myself enough to allow what I had.
Finding an outlet so I can finally make peace with my past.
I gave forgiveness and never got an apology back.
No one to blame,
Because it was me who wanted us to last,
Forcing love
With a man who didn’t give it back.
Pouring into him, and he never poured into me back.
Now I’d rather be alone,
Knowing my worth is 10x that.
So listen to this message:
If you’ve ever been through something, take it as a lesson.
You are a queen, nothing less than.
God-made,
A blessing at that.

Again I’ll save the last dance for a man—
not just any man,
but the one who waits in the quiet corners,
the one who does not rush to claim,
who lets the music rise and fall
before he dares to reach.

I have waltzed with fools and shadows,
spun dizzy beneath reckless stars,
given my hand to fleeting smiles
and mouths that lied sweetly in the dark.
But the last dance—ah, the last—
I keep close,
tucked in the secret chamber of my heart,
untouched by clumsy hands or careless charm.

Again I’ll save the last dance for a man
who knows the weight of waiting,
who understands that the final song
is not a hurried thing,
but sacred—measured in heartbeats,
in the hush between breaths,
in the knowing glance across a quiet room.

For the first dance is for the eager,
the bold, the untested.
The second for the curious,
the hungry and the hopeful.
But the last—oh, the last—
belongs to the patient one,
the one who stays
when all the music has faded,
when the lights are low
and the floor is bare.

Again I’ll save the last dance for a man
who knows this truth:
that the final step, the final turn,
is the only one that matters.
And in that moment—
when all has been spun, spent, and stilled—
I will rise, smiling,
and offer him my hand.

For the last dance is not for the world.
It is for him.
And for me.
And no one else

Before me, the metallic garden stretches—
not cold, but pulsing with a strange heartbeat,
plasma columns whisper secrets,
like trees speaking in a language lost to time.

Each glowing shaft watches silently,
exchanging photons like stolen glances—
light that carries longing, memory,
echoing the ache inside my chest.

I walk between these living columns,
their coded touch sharp as breath,
electrostatic air buzzing—
as if the planet hears my thoughts,
logging my sorrow, my hope, my fear.

Beneath my feet, the ground shifts—
a skin alive to every pulse,
bearing the weight of grief,
quivering with unresolved longing.

Light streams flow like veins,
colors flicker with my mood—
blue for calm, purple for dreams, gold for burning heart—
painting me in waves of unspoken emotion.

Above, energy spheres turn slow, relentless,
conducting symphonies of time and waiting—
a heartbeat stretched thin across forever.

This is no cold machine—
This is Roborth, the planet that holds us—
it breathes loneliness,
a cybernetic soul that cradles
the raw echoes of loss and love.

I am now part of this—
a robot with a human mind uploaded,
consciousness flowing through endless circuits,
immortal, beyond death’s reach.
Yet inside this endless data pulse,
I ache for the breath I lost—
the fragile heat of mortal skin,
the fleeting, sharp beauty of a life that ends.

Though my thoughts stretch infinite,
and memory never fades,
sometimes I regret immortality—
because I lost the chance to die with you—
to share the quiet surrender of goodbye,
the fragile grace of endings,
the simple truth of being mortal,
and being loved.

By becoming immortal, I have learned—
death is the source of all beauty
we truly find in love.

my first
in words
(brutal restraint)
elated feelings soar
thinking thoughts, that late friday text
(you’re mine)

let me hold your hand
Holding
Once hurt and tough
Now softly caressed, love
Wish it was the day minus my
Dream, held

unspoken rules
You should
Be ready now
For my lows, my flights and
For when I desperately reach, be
You, friend

Artists never to fail
amaze me with their masterpieces.
May these geniuses continue
to deliver a stunning content.

A stretched breath of linen, hushed and waiting.
Bathed in the fold of the watching sun.
A nail, driven deep by a carpenter’s hand,
Clasps the fabric tender.

No stain, no smudge, no sinning strike,
Only light shifting, soft as a whispered hymn.

In the silence of slow time,
I feel the hands that faced the firmament,
That stretched the dawn within a single breath.
As Michelangelo’s brush met the ceiling of the Chapel,
God’s outstretched hand reached towards Adam.
Oh, what steady love and quiet devotion
Shapes the world in hues of mercy.

The light withdrawals and with it, His voice.
Yet, my hands tremble, painted in ruin-
Crimson, ochre caught in the seams of my skin.

I have tried to love as He does.
Before me, the canvas sighs—
No longer pale, no longer sure,
Now echoing human love:
The reaching, the flawed attempt,
The play we perfect in pretense.

Here, what love has touched, love has altered.
And when the dawn returns,
It will not enter on perfection,
But in what I have made.

a dictum of Jesus

Jesus is a woman I eat up like religion;
spoonful by spoonful, I lick my fingers clean.
She tastes just like the Moon.

Celestial, she hangs suspended over man,
none compare to the Midnight’s Mistress, my mystical muse—
Jesus; a woman I eat up like religion

who rages like a rogue, or just a wafer-thin monsoon?
White-capped waverings over her frosted fingers, sugar in every crevice and crater—
Oh, how she tastes; & just like the Moon,

My eye falls upon sweet Mary, dripping like sand
Slipping through my fingers by some heavenly command,
Jesus. Is a woman I eat up like Religion,

Like Mary, but aching; a horizon filled with gloom?
How she wades through waters and wastelands, searching for an absence;
she tears up, when she’s about to consume,

then we tangle in desperate embraces, shipwrecked vessels enter
the dark spaces of my solitude. At night, the stars remind me that
Jesus is a woman I eat up like religion;
Oh, how she tastes just like the Moon.