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We’re dying of heat in a church in Australia,
pamphlets fan our faces.
A flower wilts through the space between our fingers,
and we walk by faith, not by sight, so
Guilty.

Well, we know the cashmere of time:
Antarctic kangaroos,
a rumble of the plates,
drinking a glass of lukewarm water, cold once,
but forgotten.

My son, I have a presentiment that your education
Would somehow be to deny the existence of God
But I could confirm you; at least it is not scientific
To repudiate the existence of that omniscient Lord
We can’t confirm or deny, to say all above board
True scientists can only say, “He is still undiscovered.”
They merit the ignorance, limitations, and Undiscovery
And their faith in incessant yet persistent ingenuity
But they’d ne’er say, “Since we have not found God
For we reject, for certain; mere existence of this sort.”

Pseudoscientists or expositors, ascertain that denial
Core of their business lies in dismissing His survival
Just as pastors or preachers ascertain as mortal-coil
They need people to be blindfolded, ask them to toil;
I, for, cannot confirm or deny the existence, as Goder
But I can certainly tell you what I’d possibly discover.

GOD POSSIBLY is the
Connections withal permutations and combinations
And combined among different shades of the limits
Tenuous connections among point(s) and infinities
Tangible and intangible connections among those
Things and nothingness that can never be defined
Connections among the humanelies and beasties–
Richers and paupers, pain-givers and pain-takers
Connection with all classes; between you, me, and them–
Despite, we ever or never go to temple(s) and proclaim.

It is how people ever or would never find their Gods
You’re no exception, should also not give up giving it shots
Everyone finds his God, least for ones, when even hope is at stakes
The meanings would be different, even the matters, and the shapes
He possibly exists even before gestations or even after deaths;
Just remain steadfast, eternally inquisitive, and persistent in quests.

See! One who sins is a slave of his sins, for he’d feel pride in sinnings
Pride is enigma instilled by God as power to connect all his winnings
Then the values of acknowledging one’s worth exceed all their lim-its
Becoming supercilious and leading to one’s inglorious records in its;
Then He becomes as a faith in ignominy, ruling the masses to His accord
Ignominious as begetter of magnanimity, fall of pride the one can afford;
God possibly is a touch, even eternal, as the smaller than the smallest points
Who survives in everyone as a transient beauty, connecting quiescent joints
No one is perfect, nothing ever could be; all are sinful in some way or other
Even writing this poem, a platitude, could be a sin; given my faith gets ove

Would it be safe enough to say I miss you?
Even tho you’re gone, I still feel as if you
We’re still here with me, But even tho you’re gone

I still can’t picture life without you, and what I mean
By that, is that every time someone asks me how many cousins
I have, I always say five instead of four, or when my
Parents tell me we’re going to your house

I always picture you at the door with the warmest smile
And your arms are wide open for a hug, just waiting for us to arrive
But… it’s all an illusion that I make for myself
But the problem is that… it hurts me more
To pretend that you’re still here, then to just accept the fact that
your gone

I know I’m being repetitive, but what else can I say?
That I’m sad that you left me all alone?
Or maybe that I’m mad that I can’t erase your face from all the family photos
I’m mad because the doctors couldn’t do anything to help you
Or maybe that I’m angry because you didn’t tell me?
Or that I’m angry because you thought
It was no big deal

But no, I’m not angry…I’m hurt.
I’m hurt at the fact that it makes me angry
Because it wasn’t your fault..

It just happened, and everything happens
For a reason, right?
And its always gonna be an if never a when or you will
Like if you had lived, you would have become
The most famous comic creator, as you would put it
Or if you had lived, you would have been there on my
Special day when I turned fifteen with your fancy suit that you had bought
Months before you died, we would have danced and laughed together
As I always imagined

But no..instead I was stuck with looking at the entrance
Waiting for something that was never going to come
I was stuck at the front door of your house, waiting for the
Embrace that was never going to happen
I was stuck…waiting at your room door..waiting for you…
But in reality, I was waiting for nothing
I would just stand outside your room, looking at the white door

waiting…

But its been years since your passing
And I’m still outside that white door
Just waiting for you…

Because even tho its been years
I still cant go past and let it go
So ill keep waiting
And ill keep writing about you
Because I miss…
you

– Valeria Moreno

It arrives between heartbeats—no tolling bell, no whispered omen. Only weight, ancient as the first silence, curling inside your ribs, prying them apart as rust devours steel.

It does not strike. Striking would be mercy. Instead, it dismantles. Piece by fragile piece, it unspools you— thread by trembling thread, nerve by burning nerve.

It does not hurry. It lingers. It tastes. Patient as floodwaters swallowing cities, certain as gravity’s pull on falling leaves— it knows what time knows: all things yield.

A scream rises—pure instinct, not defiance— shattering like prayer against indifferent stars. Breath. It steals that first. It threads through marrow like moonlight through water— beautiful, almost, if beauty could drown, if grace could suffocate.

And when you plead—for you will plead— it listens. Not from mercy, but from appetite. It savors your terror like aged wine, rolling it across its tongue, measuring each tremor.

Then, with cruel precision, it resumes. Slower now. More deliberate.

Until you are hollowed— until silence hums in the chamber where your soul once dwelled, until even the echo forgets your name.

Until silence is the only thing that remembers.

I’ve started looking around more oen, looking, as in, observing everything around me. We seem to ignore the mundane things, but fascination and mystery are present, in the mundane and in the present. It pains me that screens and constant stimulation rob us of our capabilities, and snatch our curiosity away.

and so I wrote:
are the sparkles trying to tell us something?
open to interpretation-
maybe the flow of nature
is a sign in itself,
a privilege reserved only for an observer.
an observer who obsesses over
inexplicable patterns;
how the rays shine on water
scattered diamonds below the half-sun
or how they escape the leaves
imprinting a shadowy artwork
or how they have this power
to light and enlighten
a soul with a void
to let it feel it’s warmth
as it plays with the surface of bodies of nature
whispering and speaking
conveying something.

Oh, how times are not the same!
So am I, so are you.
I used to be indifferent to my outfits.
Now, my stories say, “OOTD, looking fresh, looking new.”

Chocolate used to be my favorite flavor.
But you liked vanilla more.
Now, I like matcha, and yours is blueberry current.
That too, from a Pinterest store

Oh, how times are not the same!
So am I, so are you.
I started writing unfinished rhymes on a paper
But with time it morphed into something new.

So, I think it used to be better back then.
When we were held responsible for our moods
But now if we throw a tantrum, make a mess.
That is depression, anxiety, and stress.

Oh, how times have changed!
Oh, how times are not the same!
So am I, so are you.
But I think it used to be better back then.
And you think that’s how the world grew.
But who am I to blame?
You always liked it better.
When everything’s all new

Runnion ran
Through my mind
Last night I couldn’t find
An answer why
We had to die

Runnion ran
Away from me
‘Twas a mystery
At the time
Hitherto she was so kind

Runnion ran
An arrow through my heart
But I did not start
To notice the array
Of damage until today

Runnion ran
Years ago
Why did I not know
She was the one
And not the other that made me undone

Runnion ran
To my side
The day the music died
And let me confide
What I tried to hide

Runnion ran
Her fingers through my hands
Seeming my only friend
She had showed
What the other never knowed

Runnion ran
My spirits high
Showed me a light
In my darkest day
Made me not afraid

Runnion ran
From my gratitude
Suppose I acted rude
Not know exactly how to
Say thank you

Swelled by humidity
the mountain is a green cemetery
hiding men and ages
people may not believe in the valley
everyone is walking I hear
death echoing in tunnels
dark or grey, black or green
itching like a whore
whose hand has clutched everything
every song is a lament
conspiring with rains, winter, summer
autumn, storm, wind, sun, moon
it’s hardened, cruel, a green stone
nourishing the dirge
we crown death

–Ram Krishna Singh

Before the day I received news of your
wedding, I thought our friendship flowed beyond
Limits. Eighteen years of silly jokes,
Exchanged advice and counting boys we once
Had crushes on; yet you preferred the pit
In your avocado. Visits to your home
Were endless, though your promise to return
The favor, joined the pile of books never
Perused. Unopened chats and calls ignored,
Unmasked the rusting bond once shared and envied.
Our trip to the mountains gets cancelled, plans with Fay
Becomes your goal. Your sudden care surprised
Me, raising doubts about the gifts you gave me.
There’s no need closing the gap between us,
I believe space is what we both need.

Uncle Ricky, a Gentle Giant
Uncle Ricky, a brilliant soul
He gave his near and dear a softer grace
With his gap-toothed smile on his face
His laugh filled a room as he told his vivid stories.
A smooth swagger, a heart in bloom
A brother, father, mentor, uncle, friend, and garden healer
When he gave advice, it felt like gold
And wasn’t afraid to be bold
Uncle Rick, sharp and fly with a thinking grace
He could light a flame with his looks and charm.
He was a plant whisperer, sunshine sower, and dream weaver
But when he felt ill, the skies grew gray
But he was finding a way
Whether it was a wink, a grin, a knowing nod, or with God’s guidance.
Now, when I work and continue to help clients heal with massage
He is a light within my legacy
Forever etched in every part
His presence reminds me of God’s power that never yields
His memory will always be my quiet and enlightening guide
His love won’t cease, his story shall forever rise, and lives
So we just don’t say goodbye, see you later
As you remain, a star eternally in the skies