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The Iron Cage** Within a prison built of bone and sinew, He dwells, a captive, where no sun shines in. His flesh, a battlefield where armies clash, And joints, once fluid, now are bound in ash. Psoriasis, a crimson, crawling tide, Leaves burning trails where life should freely glide. Arthritis, with its gnawing, twisting grip, Has stolen...

Sadness isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it shows up quietly, more like a fading feeling than something sharp. It can feel heavy, or just kind of hollow, like there’s a gap where something used to be, even if you can’t quite explain it. It has a way of making you slow down and pay attention. To what hurts, to what’s missing, or to things that...

I remember your perfume and how its fragrance and your essence made me giddy, like fine champagne from a crystal flute, sparkling, how they made me act the fool and not care as long as I could see you, touch you, inhale you, feel you open yourself to me, but time passed, the chill crept in, and you and my love are shells of themselves since you...

They gnaw at the edges of me, little sharp-toothed things with hollow eyes, crawling from the cracks in my skull to lap at the marrow of my thoughts. I used to fight them. I used to starve them. But hunger makes them cruel. So now I lay the table. Silver plates of regret, goblets brimming with old wounds, a banquet of memories too raw...

In silence, words disappear, Unspoken—louder than any sound. A heart longs to be understood, But the world is too vast, too harsh. A voice is lost in the noise— Not because it isn’t there, But because it’s afraid to be heard. A soul bears the weight of mistakes, Carrying the heaviness of regret, Trying to mend what was broken. And then—I see...

the dots are slowly disconnecting I can see it coming now the register jams more often did I do that and why...or how? 'yes, you told me that remember...? but it's okay everything is fine' the signs are now clear this creeping fear the foggy mist of my decline the familiar sound of the 2 o'clock train snaps me out of my hazy state I move to the...

I am not the face you see, Nor the body that you claim. I am the whisper in the wind, I am the call of the same. Not bound by land, nor by creed, Not by the words you speak or write, I am the spark within your soul, The silence that holds the light. Moksha, Tawhid, or Christ’s embrace, Brahman’s heart, or Allah’s grace— These names are threads,...