Him

I still dream of him

in that fragile waking hour

where night softens into day.

He appears before me

his scent, his eyes, his touch

all so close,

so real,

that I linger there,

half-awake,

still dreaming.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Love

Beneath the skin, a silent scream—   whispers spill,   unspoken truths curl like smoke,   writhing in the bone’s hollow.   We wear our scars like shadows,   afraid of the fire we refuse to touch.   Love? A fractured pulse,   a bite too deep,   a thing that cracks the air,   splinters it into jagged echoes.   We paint it gold,   but it bleeds red,   a wound that hums its own name. Pain is the void between breaths,   a rhythm without sound,   it wears the skin like thread,   stitching together   the fractured pieces of this fragile self.   We run,   but it is a tide   that pulls us deeper. We mask it—   bury the pulse beneath the weight of others,   as if hiding could soften the sting.   But pain?   It is the only shape we carry   through the collapsing...
Read more

Women will Rule the World

In the quiet unraveling of time, there is a pulse, a slow beat that begins to quicken, as if the earth itself is waking up, stretching under the weight of centuries. It is the pulse of creation, of rebirth, and it beats within the veins of women, hidden for so long beneath the dust of old stories, suffocated by ancient structures. But now, the earth trembles beneath their feet, and the sky cracks open to reveal a new horizon. The world, once ruled by the force of iron and fire, now feels the steady force of a hand that is gentle yet firm, of a mind that knows both the depth of compassion and the sharpness of strategy. The world will be ruled not by the roar of power, but by the quiet strength of women who have known what it is to bend, to break, and to rise again. It will be ruled by those who understand the weight of the unseen—the invisible threads that bind us all, the connections between heart and earth, between body and spirit. These rulers will not need thrones, for they will car...
Read more

Stolen Green

When the Green Forgot Its Name Once, the island hummed in birdsong silk, a cradle spun in fog and fire, where rivers wrote in cursive light and mountains whispered love to sea. Her fields were prayers in bloom, each blade of grass a psalm of place— not wealth, but breath, not gold, but grace. But a ship came, full of forgetting. They arrived with names like fences, iron words that split the sky, and maps that bled the living soil into tidy, foreign lies. They took the hills and called them harvest. They took the woods and named them tax. They drowned the stories in stone books, and taught the wind to speak in cracks. She wore a crown of nettle then, our mother— with roots torn from her mouth, her language buried in furrowed rows where ghosts now plough the famine’s drought. The streams no longer sing in Gaeilge. The cows have silence in their eyes. The hedgerows hold their breath for spring that never truly arrives. Still—somewhere behind the hedges, the old tunes twist in hawthorn lim...
Read more