The Hollow Room

02 Wednesday Jul 2025

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I wake alone inside a cathedral ribbed with bone,
The walls are papered thick with words left unsaid.
Each syllable rings in a voice not my own,
Echoing from hollows where my old selves have bled.

The mirror shatters; shadows spill and creep—
Their gazes reflect every wrong I’ve known.
I mouth confessions I once swore to keep,
And feel their weight sink marrow-deep in bone.

I keep a ledger etched beneath my skin,
Its pages sewn with every labored breath.
Regrets seep inward, black as mortal sin,
And count the debts I’ll bear beyond my death.

My hands recall the shape of every plea,
The trembling pulse beneath a lover’s skin.
Regret becomes a hunger, gnawing me,
Haunting locked chambers where no light has been.

Beyond these walls, the world parades in disguise—
A masquerade of falsehoods, each mask worn thin.
I trade the truth for labyrinths of lies,
And wear a painted grin to hide what’s caged within.

I’m weary of safety, of the dark things I’ve fed,
Of hiding the creatures my choices have bred.
Tonight, I’ll unshackle the beasts in my mind
And summon every specter I once left behind.

Let the darkness press its weight against my chest,
I’ll claw a window through this prison wall.
If pain’s the only truth my soul’s confessed,
At least I know I’m still alive to feel it all.

So let the hollow room become my throne—
A kingdom built from torment, ache, and unrest.
I face the silence, unfettered and alone,
And forge my freedom from the shadows I’ve suppressed.

The Tides We Claim

01 Tuesday Jul 2025

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We rise from brine and breaking wave,
Our lungs first filled by ancient tide—
The moon’s pull constant in our blood,
We dream in songs where leviathans glide.

We cradle the sea in our language,
Name her mother, muse, and abyss—
We etch her storms in ancient ballads,
As ships sink in the hush of her kiss.

We build our cities on her patience,
Harvest her secrets, take her gift,
We praise the blue abundance offered—
Blind as the tide recoils, and fortunes drift.

But as we cast our nets of longing,
And draw her depths into our hands,
We forget we are her children—
And raise our empires on vanishing lands.

For every vow we whispered in reverence
Is betrayed for comfort, lost for gain;
We poison the altar with our restless hunger—
Then mourn the goddess we ourselves have slain.

Yet still, we draft our grand manifestos,
Declare ourselves her stewards true—
We crown intent with virtue’s hollow language,
And scrawl belated wisdom as if anew.

And as the oceans rise to greet us,
Swallowing all we’ve built in vain pride,
We cling to ghosts of cleverness—
Drowning in the truths we long denied.

Stone Houses

30 Monday Jun 2025

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I wake to silence where the larks once sang,
To morning’s ache—a slow, unyielding pang.
The world, once wild with promise, shrinks with fears;
Empty houses echo, haunted by the weight of years.

We build our shelters driven by desire, not need,
Hoarding as wealth the trophies of our greed.
We trade our time for trinkets doomed to rust,
And sow our hours in fields soon turned to dust.

Most drift through life, resigned and confined,
Their quiet dread a current, dark and blind.
We yearn for meaning, always out of frame—
A carnival of shadows—each day wears a new name.

We live as neighbors, yet our worlds rarely meet,
Each scrolling through silence, programmed to repeat.
We chase every impulse, the next fleeting trend,
And find our longing circles without end.

Simplicity remains a riddle, elusive even to the wise,
A mirage on the horizon that forever defies.
We soothe our wounds with comforts we devise,
And toast to the lies that keep truth disguised.

Let not neon voices nor clamoring market’s siren song,
Lure you toward that glittering, faceless throng.
For to live is not to chase idols made of smoke—
But to peel back the mask and laugh at the universe’s joke.

Each dawn, a chance to start, yet most will find
The morning’s light weighs heavy on the mind.
The miracle of living seems a jest—
A brief distraction before our eternal rest.

True wealth resides in what we choose to lose:
The frantic pace, the glitter we refuse.
A man grows rich in needless things he can release,
Yet the world’s restless calling denies him peace.

So may I walk, with weary, measured pace,
Beneath pale stars that whisper of my place,
Content to know, as seasons come and pass,
That life is but a fingerprint fading from the glass.

For life’s brief trial is but a humble request—
To feel, to strive, to ache, and then to rest.
Yet as dusk falls gently on the boundless blue,
I search the fading distance for a world few ever knew.

Modern Saunterer

29 Sunday Jun 2025

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From screens and city sounds, I let the static fade,
The wild calls out beyond the glass, where no device has played.
Asphalt veins inscribe the map, yet freedom evades the grid,
Where roots reclaim the fractured stone and sky is never hid.

Each step’s a swipe at boundaries, a scroll through living green,
The signal drops, yet spirit soars where few have ever been.
We’re told to optimize and grind, to chase some fleeting goal,
But wildness is the ancient code that reboots every soul.

I walk to leave the wired world behind, to log out and begin
A pilgrimage through tangled trails, unplugged from noise within.
No wealth can buy the hours I need to wander and to stray,
It takes a fearless heart to dream—and let the frantic world decay.

Let others tally likes and shares, confined by curated feeds,
I’ll chase solitude where twilight falls and wildness meets my needs.
For “all good things are wild and free”—the old words still ring true!—
In swamps or city parks alike, our restless hearts renew.

We saunter toward a future not yet surveyed and mapped,
A state of mind, a way to be, unbound, never to be trapped.
The world is more than data points, or boundaries on a chart,
The wild remains the source code deep within the human heart.

To walk is to recall the world was never made to be for sale—
We’re woven from the living earth, not masters ordained to prevail.
The wild sustains what’s true and whole in tangled, sacred space;
There, marrow-deep, our lives renew—we glimpse our truest place.

So let me walk where sunlight falls on grass that’s never shorn,
Where every hour is born anew, and every soul reborn.
Not heaven above, but earth beneath, holds all we seek and dread—
Those who walk with open eyes find spirit’s path ahead.

Let others chase their measured days and fear the forest’s call—
I’ll walk into the wilderness, and there become my all.
For in the wild, the mind expands, the heart is rendered whole,
And every step I take alone forges freedom in my soul.

But as I walk, the silence grows—no birdsong in the air,
The ancient web, unraveled now, hangs tattered in despair.
We cut the branch on which we stand, blind to the gathering dust,
And in the end, extinction’s hand will close on all of us.

The Spaces In Between

28 Saturday Jun 2025

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The smallest moments shimmer in the shade—
A sunbeam traces secrets on the windowsill.
Laughter, liquid as morning light, cascades
Before darkness, before the world grows still.

We chase horizons, charting unknown stars,
Blind to the butterfly’s furtive flight—
A whispered word, a fingerprint on dusty jars,
Pulling the threads from the cloak of night.

A cup of coffee, warming winter-chilled hands,
The scent of rain drifting on a grassy plain,
A child’s bright drawing of imagined lands,
Small wonders lost, yet in our hearts remain.

We measure worth in milestones, gilded names,
Yet miss the quiet treasures close at hand—
Unspoken gifts, too humble to be named,
Weave the very life we strive to understand.

One day we’ll turn and, with astonished eyes,
Find dew-strung webs glistening on stalks of grain;
The little things, dismissed in hurried guise,
Were galaxies shining through the rain.

So pause—let silent marvels spark your quest;
Life’s magic hides in spaces in between.
The smallest joys, like fireflies at rest,
Illuminate worlds the heart has never seen.

The World After the Curtain Falls

27 Friday Jun 2025

Posted by in Collapse of Industrial Civilization, Mental Health

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The virus spreads—a silent, deadly thief—
Its cleansing hand cold, indifferent to belief.
No more the city’s pulse beneath neon sheen,
No more the comfort of the glowing screen.

The bright side of the planet slides out of sight,
Old cities flicker, dissolving into the night.
Elevators stranded between hushed floors,
Winds howl through hollow towers, clawing at locked doors.

The curtain falls on meaning, memories blur,
The world’s old stories fade—no voices stir.
What is a life, but lines we learn to say,
A fragile script, swept suddenly away?

Dust settles quietly on abandoned stages,
While relics of the living outlast their ages.
Certainties fade into silence and dread,
Echoes lingering long after voices have fled.

We gather fragments, clutch them in the dark,
Absence carves deep silence where longing once sparked.
When the world falls silent and certainty is gone,
What dares remain—a story, a song, the will to carry on?

Yet in the stillness, the heart recalls the dawn—
A music unfurling where shadows are drawn.
Notes rise from silence, from all that is gone,
A vow that beauty endures, and carries us on.

“Survival is insufficient,” so the old voices say,
We ache for meaning, not just escape from decay.
Among unfamiliar faces, hope flickers and thrives,
We tend simple miracles that keep spirit alive.

For what endures, when all the world is dust,
But love, and art, and memory, and trust?
We wander through ruins, drawn to one another,
Each unknown face echos a sister or a brother.

The past persists in shards: a faded page,
A photograph, a rumor, a bottled rage.
We mourn the vanished world of glass and steel,
Yet find in broken things the power to heal.

The soul endures when flesh has slipped away,
A chorus of longing woven through the gray.
We speak of light, but shadows still divide—
Who claims the future, and who is cast aside?

We carry burdens, heavy as the years—
Regrets and love, and unacknowledged fears.
Yet even in ruins, new wonders arise,
We craft hope from fragments beneath altered skies.

When all is stripped away, beauty calmly returns—
In the hush between heartbeats, astonishment burns.
What purpose remains, if not to dream and create
A vision so radiant it outshines fate?

So let the curtain fall, let night descend;
We are the stories we tell, my dear friend.
From the hush of twilight, new beginnings take flight—
A steadfast faith guiding us into the light.

Though time may scatter all we understand,
We hold each other’s ghosts with gentle hands.
We walk through the ashes of all that has been,
And kindle tomorrow from the embers within.

Threshold of Night

26 Thursday Jun 2025

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Life fractures swiftly—the hourglass cracks,
A hearth’s warm comfort, then all goes black.
An ordinary life, so vivid and serene,
Splinters in silence where joy once had been.

Grief is a wave that knows no shore,
It knocks us down, then returns for more.
We ride each surge, unmoored, undone—
A tide that ebbs, but whose haunting is never outrun.

We bargain with shadows that linger and stare,
Whispering pleas to the unanswering air.
We line up their shoes in the still of the room,
Clinging to rituals that cannot exhume.

Magical thinking—the last thread we spin,
A tapestry woven when hope is worn thin.
The mind, in its orbit, circles the dread:
How can it fathom a loved one is dead?

Memory loops, a fevered reel unspooled,
Unending “What if”s, relentless and cruel.
Did love not matter, did faith not bind tight,
When fate’s blind hand extinguished the light?

We read, we study—grasp for command,
As if wisdom could sculpt with a trembling hand.
We gather the fragments, patch words to the whole,
Yet knowledge dissolves at the edge of the soul.

At the threshold of night where all certainties break,
We find only silence in sorrow’s deep wake.
The mind, once a lantern, flickers and waits
Where randomness rises and meaning abates.

The rituals finished, the ashes sealed in stone,
Yet absence still lingers in rooms once our own.
No priest, no chant, no marble’s cold grace
Can conjure the warmth of a vanished embrace.

Dependency, a double edge, both shelter and snare—
Was marriage our anchor, or hope in thin air?
We walked once as one, now shadows aligned,
Bereavement carves hollows in heart and in mind.

So life resumes—each day a hollowed role,
Each moment echoing fractures of the soul.
We gather the pieces of laughter and pain,
Haunted by shadows memory cannot contain.

We live, we love, we lose, and we ache,
Carrying absence in every breath we take.
Yet out of the wreckage, one truth we will claim:
To grieve is to honor, and keep memory’s flame.

The Unheard Symphony

25 Wednesday Jun 2025

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The engines stilled; voices faded, withdrawn.
No current’s hum, no echo of command.
A spectral quiet settled, dusk to dawn,
Draped silence, vast and holy, on the land.

At first, a void—where shadows seemed to creep,
Then wind emerged, a sigh through ancient trees,
Whispering secrets that buried stones still keep,
A language carried on the patient breeze.

Next, water’s voice: the river’s gentle flow,
The ocean’s rhythm on a lonely shore,
The rain’s soft patter on the leaves below—
Life’s liquid pulse, unnoticed, lost before.

Then earth itself—the groan of shifting stone,
The mountain’s murmur, deep and slow and old,
The crack of ice where frozen streams had grown,
The planet’s ancient heartbeat, fierce and bold.

Then creatures sang: the wolf’s lone howl out of sight,
The cricket’s chirp, the eagle’s sovereign call,
The rustle where keen hunters prowl at night—
The wild’s raw beauty, rising past the wall.

Then inner sounds—the pulse within the wrist,
The breath that flows like tides against the skin,
The mind’s own murmur in the deepening mist—
The soul laid bare, cleansed of the world’s loud din.

We felt Time’s weight—the stars’ cold, distant chime,
The root’s slow climb, the petal breaking hold,
The patient turn of seasons, grand, sublime—
Eternity in fleeting moments told.

At last, we heard what silence truly breeds:
Not emptiness, but life’s presence vast and deep—
The universe in every blade and seed,
And in that quiet, wisdom long lost to sleep.

For silence showed the world was never still,
But thrummed with life that noise had long concealed—
A cosmic hymn no human craft could kill,
And in that sound, our souls stood bare, revealed.

So here we chase our purpose through the din,
Mistaking noise for proof that we exist—
We build and strive, yet lose what lies within,
For life’s true song is what we most resist.

We fill the void with echoes of our fears,
And call it progress as the wildness dies;
The meaning sought eludes our hurried years—
A silent truth that waits beyond our lies.

Starlit Dialogues with My Shadow

24 Tuesday Jun 2025

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Beneath the sweep of eternity’s vast thrall,
Where galaxies in quiet reverence call,
I wander, shadows trailing faint and near—
A silent twin, whose secrets haunt my ear.

We speak in whispers, language spun from night,
Of questions lost to answers out of sight—
“What waits beyond the lantern of the soul?
Does stardust yearn, longing to be whole?”

My shadow laughs, a gentle ripple in the shade,
“Are you the spark, or just what the dark has made?
When flesh dissolves, will you become the light,
Or drift as but a faint echo through the night?”

I ponder stars—each one whose secrets are sought,
A cipher blazing through endless cosmic thought.
Their fractured ancient light, a signal sent too late,
Reminding that time and fate will never wait.

Yet in the hush between each cosmic breath,
I sense a yearning, deep beyond mere death.
Is death a door, or just a transient pause?
A final merging with life’s sacred laws?

My shadow threads its fingers into mine,
And murmurs if purpose hides in grand design.
“Perhaps,” it says, “in endings you will find
The birth of wonder, unconfined by mind.”

I search for riddles whose replies remain untold,
Spiraling inward, where all mysteries unfold.
Each pulse a question burning in my chest—
Is seeking truth itself a kind of test?

My shadow smiles, a knowing, gentle guide,
And parts the veil where fragile selves divide.
In moonlit stillness, I embrace the quest—
And sense a riddle beckoning me from my rest.

So let me wander, wistful and amazed,
Through starry halls where timeless spirits gazed.
For in the cosmic dance where light and shadow trace,
I find hope that endures in shadows we all chase.

Echoes of the Unheard: A People’s Chronicle of Blood, Bones, and Resistance

23 Monday Jun 2025

Posted by in Capitalism, Collapse of Industrial Civilization, Corporate State, Empire, Inequality, Mental Health, Neo-Colonialism, Oligarchy

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Upon the shore, the sails unfurled—a shadow split the sand,
The Arawaks, open-handed, met the strangers on their land.
But steel and hunger answered gifts; the blade betrayed the hand,
And memory’s first encounter bled sorrow through the land.

The victors chisel chronicles, their glory set in stone,
Yet deep beneath the monuments, lost voices weep alone.
History’s map distorts the truth—its borders, blurred and planned;
The silenced and forgotten ones still haunt this stolen land.

A nation’s myth is mortared with the bones of those bereft,
Each monument to progress built on conquest and on theft.
Can gold and glory balance out the suffering and the pain,
Or does the ledger overflow with loss that can’t be named?

The color line, a scar across the centuries of blight,
Millions bound in bondage, stripped of dignity and right.
Yet whispers stoked resistance, hope burning out of sight,
Their courage, fierce and quiet, set darkened fields alight.

The poor and desperate, shipped away, indentured, whipped, and sold,
Their hunger turned to labor, their resistance crushed, controlled.
Class lines hardened—fortunes swelled as hope was overthrown,
The promise of equality a seed that’s never grown.

The memory of nations is not the memory you knew,
For nations are not families, nor interests shared by you.
The past is not a single tale, but conflict, clash, and strife,
A struggle for compassion in the shadowed halls of life.

If history is but a tool for those who hold the reigns,
Then every page that’s left unturned perpetuates the chains.
But hidden in the margins are the moments that resist,
The fugitive, the rebel, and the dreamers who persist.

To mourn the victims is not all, nor to condemn the strong,
But seek the fleeting moments when the powerless belonged.
In every age, a spark of justice flickers, faint but clear—
A lesson waits in listening, for those who choose to hear.

So let us read with skeptic’s eye, with empathy and doubt,
To find the threads of common cause that history leaves out.
For justice is not handed down, nor progress preordained—
It lives in acts of memory, in all that’s lost and gained.

And so the ledger closes—not with peace, but with a scream,
A continent’s inheritance: the violence of the dream.
Beneath our cities’ towers, the bones still shape the land,
And sorrow carves its memory where monuments now stand.

The silence of the vanished, the cries that went unheard,
Are buried in our language, in every history’s word.
Yet from the ash and shadow, a question will demand:
Who dares to claim the future, with blood upon your hand?