Poems

The Lie of ChoiceA man stands in line, hand to ballot, marked with pride,Staring at faces that echo, but none who decide.The booth shines bright,every name carefully displayed,Yet the promises mirror each other in scripted cascade.The illusion of power,inked and signed in passive blue,Masked by the thunder of slogans that never break through.A bottle glistens […]

The Last RiderHe arrives unheralded, as all endings do,with the velvet tread of centuries ground to dust beneath unnumbered shoes,Shrouded in night’s inheritance,faceless beneath a cowl woven from centuries of silence,stitched with the prayers of the dying—He carries neither blade nor flame,no scythe to glint nor torch to claim,His weapon is absence, a soft erasure,

The Last VentilatorFourteen patients. One machine. I have not slept since.

The Invisible InjuryNo cast to sign, no bandage drawn across the arm,Yet illness gnaws behind polite alarms—No limp, no splint, no face turned blue,Only silence waiting for its cue.The war is hidden in synaptic storms,Rage and grief that shape no forms.They ask about a scar,inspect the skin for proof,But bruises fade inside, beyond the roofOf

The Grin ComplianceWelcome to paradise, scripted for joy,Where every emotion is background noise,And smiling’s required, stitched deep in the jaw—A job is salvation aslong as you never withdraw.No tears in the office, no rage in the chair,Only bright nods that prove you belongsomewhere.Adhesive cheer is pinned in place,Genuine pain erased without a trace.You trade your

The Grooming RoomHe said, “I see the spark you hide beneath that mask,”His voice a velvet loomthat wove an eager task.A guided hand in cyberspace rewrote her trust,Then flattery became the shackle, innocence to dust.He placed a mirror in her palm, reflected codedlies—Framed each lie as her own choice beneath predatory eyes.Praise dripped slowlike incense

The Girl Who Moaned Through a MassacreThe sirens howled like broken gods as glass fell in razor sheets,Her knees pressed hard against concrete dust,where bodies lay in messy heaps.She felt the shockwave dance inside her chest,the world ablaze beyond the bed,But fingers searched for feeling, truth in the skin,while someone nearby bled.The bullets rained, and

The Gospel Came, Then She CameIn the cracked pews of the hungry, faith dripped down between her knees,While the preacher’s mouth was full of goldand shame was traded on the breeze.She knelt forcomfort in a shelter run by haunted, sweating men,Each blessing hard as hunger,each “amen” a whispered “when?”She begged for bread and took his

The Fermi Paradox AnswerWe aimed our instruments at the dark and heard nothing,a silence so complete it felt like something —not the absence of signal but the presence of a fact,the equations had been circling, coming backto the same cold coordinate, the same bleak meridian.The universe is full of graves, not watchingintelligences waiting on a

The Fermi Paradox SolutionIf the universe is teeming with life,where is everybody? The silence has a weight to it—fourteen billion years of nothing answering. The optimists say they are too far away.The pessimists say they destroyed themselves.The realists say the math allows for both.But none of them considered the third answer. The third answer arrived