roots-secret-verse

[roots-secret-verse]

I am a flame, and you are the air,

Together we dance, a passionate flare.

Hope is the sky where your smile is the sun,

In your warmth, all my shadows are undone.

Night is a mirror, reflecting your face,

Kisses like stardust in infinite space.

Oceans compare not to what I feel,

Faithful as gravity — steady and real.

You are the ink in the lines that I write,

Over and over, you color my night.

Under your silence, I still hear your song.

Even the moon waits to follow you long.

Vows aren’t just words — they’re echoes of truth,

Each one I whisper is born of our youth.

Roses may fade, but roots still remain,

You are my shelter in love’s wild terrain.

Some call it magic, but I call it grace,

I see the whole world when I look at your face.

Never a second goes gently away,

Golden and glowing, you light every day.

Life is a story that rewrites its way,

Each chapter begins with your name when I pray.

Days may be busy, the world may seem loud,

And yet, in my mind, you stand out from the crowd.

You are the reason my heart ever stays.

[roots-secret-verse]

Just off shore

The land is there.

Always there.

Close enough to carve into his retinas—

a skyline like a row of sharpened teeth,

the soft green promise of stillness.

But it never nears.

It recedes,

with each violent pull of his limbs,

as if the sea itself stretches—

a black lung that inhales his effort

and breathes back futility.

The water isn’t water.

It’s a body—

slick and stinking,

slick with him.

It tongues his wounds.

It sucks the salt from his blood

just to replace it with more.

He swims in circles he can’t see.

Flesh sloughs from his fingers.

Joints grind like rusted machinery

screaming through the motion.

Every breath he takes

is borrowed from something

that wants it back.

And then—

he slips under.

The sky vanishes

like it never wanted him.

Light goes thin.

The pressure clamps down

like a fist behind his eyes.

And below:

teeth.

Not shark.

Not beast.

Coral—

a cathedral of bone

made to shred.

It doesn’t cut.

It peels.

Peels him slow,

like fruit under a lover’s thumb.

Rips a ribbon from his thigh

that unspools into the current,

a red thread trailing

back to the womb of pain

he can never leave.

Skin screams.

Mouth floods.

He kicks the reef,

sinks his foot into its jagged grin,

feels the sole split open

like wet paper—

nerves lit up like wildfire

in a drowning forest.

But the sea gives him back.

It wants him awake.

Not dead.

Hurting.

Just enough.

So he surfaces again—

gasping, pulsing,

his body a map of ruin.

Land still there.

Untouched.

Holy.

Mocking.

He cries once,

but it sounds like a laugh.

There is no rescue.

Only repetition.

Only this cruel orbit

around a shore

that never meant to let him in.

He swims, not to survive—

but because the pain

has become the only thing

that proves he exists.

He was never meant to reach it.

He was built to suffer the trying.

[roots-secret-verse]

“Because You Asked”

You asked me why I walk alone,

why I don’t nod when the world agrees—

just a harmless question,

barely a breeze.

But now I’m pacing storms.

Because silence is often a lie,

and I’d rather choke on thorns

than smile and comply

with truths pre-chewed and worn.

I don’t believe in comfort

if it costs clarity.

I don’t call kindness “good”

when it’s just fear dressed in charity.

You asked, and now I’m burning.

Not at you—

but at the hollowed bones of certainty,

the scripts people wear like skin,

the way virtue is polished

until it no longer cuts.

I’ve seen goodness used like a leash.

Seen morals built like scaffolds

to hang the inconvenient.

So I build my own.

Not perfect, not clean—

but honest.

Sharp enough to draw blood

if I ever wield them wrong.

You asked a simple thing—

and I gave you a storm.

Because truth, to me,

isn’t what fits in a sentence.

It’s the fire I keep

so I don’t go cold

in a world full of easy answers.

[roots-secret-verse]

Soft Whispers of Your Eyes

Your eyes mirror the dawn’s gentle hue,

In the quiet glow of morning’s light,

Your skin soft as whispered dew.

I trace each tender curve, a secret art,

Where warmth flows in rhythms pure and true,

Your eyes mirror the dawn’s gentle hue.

Beneath a moon’s reflective, mystic view,

My heart awakens at the sight of you,

Your skin soft as whispered dew.

In every glance, the world feels born anew,

A silent spell in each embrace we pursue,

Your eyes mirror the dawn’s gentle hue.

As twilight weaves our story through and through,

Our souls entwine in love’s soft rendezvous,

Your skin soft as whispered dew.

Let time suspend in this enchanted view,

Where passion and tenderness blend as due,

Your eyes mirror the dawn’s gentle hue,

Your skin soft as whispered dew.

[roots-secret-verse]

you

were

here

but

the

silence

is growing

like roots of

things unsaid, cracks

spreading, widening, I try

to hold on, but the wind pulls,

time pulls, you pull— away.

I whisper, but echoes fall

through empty hands, the

space between us now

a hollowed ache,

a fading shape,

a memory.

[roots-secret-verse]

Part One

2nd Poem in a collection

The Choice I Make

It comes again—

not loud, not furious,

just there.

Like a breath I didn’t choose

but still must carry.

No storm this time.

No screaming.

Just a weight in the ribcage,

a chill behind my eyes,

a question I didn’t ask:

Why try again?

It knows my name in the dark.

Knows how to say it

like a warning,

like an old song

I swore I forgot.

And for a moment, I fold.

Not all the way—

but enough to feel

the cold graze my fingers

like an invitation.

The truth is,

I miss it sometimes.

The easy surrender,

the excuse to be still

and call it safety.

But healing isn’t a straight road.

It’s a thousand choices in shadow.

It’s brushing your teeth

when you want to disappear.

It’s making tea

and watching the water boil

just to prove you’re still here.

It’s saying, Not today,

even when tomorrow

feels just as fragile.

Some days I cry and do it anyway.

Some days I don’t cry—

and that, too, is a kind of miracle.

The voice still visits.

It may always visit.

But I don’t set a place for it anymore.

I let it knock.

I let it wait.

And behind the door,

I keep building.

Shaky walls,

crooked windows,

but mine.

A home where light

knows my name.

And this time,

I answer.

[roots-secret-verse]

The Name I Give Myself

I found myself once in the quiet hours,

when morning split the sky like truth—

soft light brushing shame from my shoulders,

and for a breath, I loved who I was.

The mirror no longer barked back lies.

The weight I carried grew wings instead,

and in that hush, I almost forgot

what it meant to feel like ruin.

I drank silence like a holy thing,

let it rest on my tongue without choking.

My skin, a map I could finally read

without mourning the journey.

For once, the voice inside

sounded like mine,

not some stranger with my fears

stitched into his throat.

I said my name,

and it didn’t tremble.

I touched my chest

and found a pulse that wanted to stay.

But self-hatred does not die—it waits.

It learns your new language, wears your smile.

It returns like winter in spring’s clothes,

with gentler knives and colder hands.

It sees me happy and grows nervous.

Sees me whole and plots its return.

Each joy becomes a crack it watches,

a seam it can split with its whispering.

You think this peace is yours?

You think the light won’t forget you?

You think you can unlearn the ache?

And I flinch.

Because I do not know.

Because I’ve never stayed long enough

to find out if love, for me, is permanent.

Each time I rise, it finds me still,

clinging tighter, whispering:

“What if this is the last time

you ever leave me behind?”

And I believe it, almost.

Almost fall again. Almost become

the silence I once fled. But then—

a flicker. A breath. A name I give myself.

I am not its forever.

Even if it claws harder,

I am learning to bleed less.

Learning to stay.

And maybe that’s enough.

Not the absence of pain,

but the refusal

to make a home in it.

Let it scream, let it beg.

I have rooms now

where it cannot sleep.

I built them

with trembling hands,

and still—I build.

[roots-secret-verse]

Fated as the Tide

The tide pulls in, but never stays for long,

like us—two souls caught in a fleeting dance.

We fear the dark but hate the blinding dawn,

forever lost in twisted circumstance.

The stars align, then shift and fall away,

we reach, we touch, then time says not today.

We tried to fight the weight of not today,

but light and shadow never mix for long.

The night calls out, but morning drags away—

we’re trapped between, half-wanting each to dance.

Yet every step feels shaped by circumstance,

as if love’s light will only lead to dawn.

But what is dawn except a crueler dawn?

It shows us all the things we’d rather say

we never saw—the chains of circumstance,

the way love dims when it is held too long.

Perhaps the dark was safer for our dance,

a place where neither one could walk away.

Yet love can’t breathe in night—it fades away.

And even we, for all we fear the dawn,

still ache to step inside the light and dance.

To say come back and stay—not not today.

But history has kept us bound so long,

and time won’t break for one more circumstance.

If love is real, then why circumstance?

If love is strong, why does it slip away?

Or is it just a story told too long,

a dream that vanishes with morning’s dawn?

We chase, we lose, we whisper not today,

then curse the light that shows the end of dance.

So here we are, still longing for the dance,

still torn between the dark and circumstance.

We fear the night but never choose today,

too scared of what it takes or what it takes away.

We curse the dark but hate the coming dawn,

and live inside a love that burns too long.

And maybe long from now, when stars align,

we’ll dance again—no fear of night or dawn.

And all that once was wrong will fade away.

[roots-secret-verse]

A Dance Undone

In the darkened depths of her soul,

where shadows danced with tender grace,

she bloomed—a flower untouched by the sun,

her beauty veiled in twilight’s embrace.

Her love was deep, a quiet song,

whispered softly in the corners of night,

a soft, eternal yearning to belong

in the stillness of her own silent fight.

But he, with eyes like burning stars,

his brilliance both cruel and bright,

blinded her with a thousand scars,

shoving her into relentless light.

His was the heat that seared and stung,

a blinding flash that she could not flee,

while her world dimmed, forever hung

in the hollow echoes of what could never be.

The light he cast, so sharp, so fierce,

pierced the very heart she gave,

and though it burned, she could not pierce

the mask he wore, so cold and grave.

He was the sun—too proud, too far—

and she was a moon, broken in its glow,

lost between the impossible scar

of love that was too pure to know.

And now they stand apart, adrift,

her darkness wrapped in shadows’ fold,

his light a memory, too swift,

a story fading, once so bold.

The beauty of their ruin remains—

the girl, the boy, and fractured night—

a love now lost to endless chains,

a dance undone by cruel daylight.

[roots-secret-verse]

The Roots Remember

He walked where even crows kept still,

Beyond the creek, beyond the hill.

No path, no sound, just hanging air—

A forest old, with patient stare.

He felt it watching through the bark,

Each twisted limb, each shadowed mark.

And when he spoke, the silence stayed—

As if the woods had never swayed.

A clearing called with moss and gloom,

A cradle shaped like earthen womb.

And there he stood beneath the yew,

Its branches weeping ancient dew.

“Rest now,” said something in the ground,

“Lay down your thoughts, unbind the wound.”

He sat. The roots began to rise,

Like tendons under watching skies.

They curled around his weathered boots,

And whispered “You remember roots.”

They told of men who came before—

Who carved their names, then were no more.

Of kings who bled into the bark,

Their bones now part of something dark.

He reached to run, but earth was stone.

The trees hummed low in undertone.

The roots climbed higher, slow and grim,

Unweaving all that made him him.

No pain—just breath that wouldn’t stay,

A heartbeat drowned in ancient clay.

The forest drank what soul he had,

And left behind a mask gone mad.

Now in the bark, a face is drawn—

His eyes still wide though he is gone.

The forest keeps what dares to roam—

Its roots remember all who come home.

So if you hear the yew-tree moan,

Turn back, or else be turned to stone.