Hollowed be Thy Thorny Crown

 Oh! Unqueenly bee who art in throne,

Hollowed bee thy thorny crown.

As hollow as thy brain,

Is thy empire of shame.

Hail! My lady you're full of blaze,

Such a mother of disgrace.

Thou art rubbish among women,

Thou are not worthy to speak the word Amen.

Glory be to the chains of wisdom,

Ye never had in thy kingdom,

For as it was in the beginning,

Thou wilt fall by the ending.

Parachute

I swear I did not mean to fall,

But how can I refuse the sky,

When the blue became your name,

Seducing me to fly toward your flame.

I swear I did not mean to fall,

But the void seems so kind,

The wind is the hush cradling my heart,

So light, like clouds guiding my path.

But gravity learned about my wings,

And for a moment claimed me as its own,

Reminding me that the earth is my home,

I found myself crashing and alone.

And if everything has a price to pay,

Even wishes make a star fall at night,

Leaving my sky empty and sad,

Mirelune, without a glow in sight.

Then let me land safely in your arms,

Be every hope I never spoke of,

The presence in the absence of all,

The parachute that saves me from the fall.

In my ruins, be my sanctuary,

Defying all the loss my heart endures,

The thread that lifts a curve to my mouth,

The ink that makes every scar beautiful for you.

The Tattooed Man in Black

He walked in a black suit,

Black tie, and tattoos,

Quiet yet commanding,

In laws only he pursues.

He is the Bishop.

The master of his own altar.

Striking like a whisper from blind corners,

On black squares, dark and diagonal from afar.

And the pawns can’t help but bow,

While the horses fall back from his silent attacks.

He is a blade forged in the dark.

He is the tattooed Man in black.

P.s. for the godson from the South

Of All the Shades of Red

Of all the shades of red

You carry inside your heart,

You blame it on the girls,

Saying they stained it from the start.

But that was never even paint

That your heart was soaked in instead,

Just red flags growing deep

In the roots beneath your thread.

Of all the shades of red

That you harbor in your soul,

You call it something sweet,

Till the sheets begin to unfold.

It was never love to begin with,

Just games you chose to play,

That brings forth all the hues of gray,

Even in the sunniest of days.

Of all the shades of red

That cloak you like a flame,

It wears you thin with time

Yet you still feed the same.

The red never fades...

It stains black on your hollow face,

And you keep all your flags waving,

With all the shades of red.

Footnotes:

To all the Patricks we have encountered... May we never cross paths with them again.

PS. There are 3 sides in every story... 

1. His Side 

2. Her Side 

3. Truth 

I'm choosing 2...

Because sometimes even the truth is not quite Right.

The First Times

There is something sacred in first times.

The act of courage

When you don’t know

What lies beyond the line.

The rush of adrenaline,

The hush that follows,

Those trembling hearts,

The wounds and scars.

But there is something sacred in first times.

The fear that lingers

Long after the fall,

The moment that flickers

Like a dying glow.

That second you remember

You were never in control,

And faith was all you had to keep your soul.

But there is something sacred in first times.

And it will never come again.

No chance to have another first—

Everything else

Becomes second or third.

You’ll miss it or you’ll make it,

Either way, you held it…

And then it’s gone.

More Sacred

But we are destined to be unique,

Different paths, different seeds.

So who’s to say your purpose

Is more sacred than mine?

For all we know,

We are crossing borderlines.

You may speak louder,

Like thunder...

Enough to make the hearers tremble.

But I offer peace,

A calm in chaos,

A rest for the warriors.

If we all shared the same fate,

Then who would ever lead?

Who would ever heal?

So who’s to say your purpose

Is more sacred than mine?

For all we know,

We are drawing different lines.

Crossing Fingers

I crossed my fingers 

Yes, for luck.

A fragile superstition

Intertwined between doubts and desires.

As if fate could be persuaded

By the quiet folding of hands.

But love is a maze,

Meant for the braves.

It sketches its boundaries in shadows,

Thin as a breath, trembling like echoes.

There are lines meant to be kept,

For the heart to stay intact.

Still we cross them,

As if we are really lucky and brave.

Softly at first, like dusk slipping into the night,

Then going deeper where every warning flickers like a dying streetlight.

In there, the dark learns our names,

And every step hums haunted and forbidden games.

Then we tell ourselves 

That luck will follow,

That it will cradle our defiance,

And it will blur the edges of consequences.

Turning things into something

Almost merciful.

But luck is a fleeting companion,

And love remembers the lines we crossed.

When our fingers finally loosen,

And our hearts start to crumble.

That's when the illusion falls apart,

And we stand in the quiet aftermath.

Crossing fingers,

Crossing lines,

The music is ruined,

The moments gone.

And we realized that we did it

For one last time.

 But inner peace is not something 

You can find...

It is something you create 

Within you.

Courage is not something 

You can find...

It is something you build

Within you.

Happiness is not something 

You can find...

It is something you make

For yourself.

Old Cafés

 And life has been a series 

Of an old playlist.

Bringing back the old 

Forgotten conversations, 

In the old Cafés

We passed along Spain.

Like an old song, 

Every word, every rhythm;

Like the old pavements,

Every brick, every granite;

Tells the story - 

Of hearts that once ache,

And now carried so many yesterdays.

Like a gallery

Holding framed arts on it's walls,

Every version, every chapter,

Has a story to tell.

Of every dream

That was once chased, got, then gone.

Like a heart keeping 

All the memories 

Of a lifetime.