Cradled in the ancient murmur,
we are archives of fire:
helixes folded as choirs,
each base a note,
each spiral a score
composed in the silence.
Listen closely—
your skin sings hydrogen,
your marrow chants iron,
your lungs rehearse
the vocabulary of stars.
What we call solitude
is crowded with voices:
the background whisper
of a universe still cooling,
and the chorus inside us
that refuses to forget
how to sing.
It squats there,
a stubborn, chrome-bellied thing—
water pooled in its gut,
silent, sulking.
I press the switch,
red eye glaring back,
but the element hums with disdain,
no steam, no promise of warmth.
So I lean close,
murmur small consolations:
you are patient,
you are bright as the morning,
you will sing again.
At first, nothing.
Then a tremor,
the faintest sigh—
and suddenly a rising chatter,
bubbles shouldering upward:
a chorus of forgiven grievances.
And now I wonder
how many small appliances sulk,
waiting for words
I’ve never thought to give.
A poet set out to contrive,
A limerick lively, alive.
He started off neat,
With a clever light beat,
Then—oh, bother, he lost it.
——
A poet who rhymed out of sync,
Rewrote every verse with a drink.
By stanza thirteen,
His rhymes turned obscene—
Then he toppled face-down in the ink.
——
A penguin once swam to a faraway land,
For sunshine and heat, his holiday planned,
But he baked in the sun,
Squawked, “This isn’t fun!”
And waddled back home, rather tanned.
The Ministry owns every syllable.
The fountain sings freely, water speaking for us.
A brass meter ticks on my throat, a clock wound too tight.
I come to hear it, because it says what we cannot.
Most have grown spare: clipped commands, no confessions.
I have grown used to nods, to eyes speaking instead of mouths.
But I am a poet. Silence is a storm caged in my ribs.
I have watched her: ink bruising her fingers, silence like thunder waiting.
Once I spent a week’s bread on one word: Careful.
Once she gave me Careful—I held it like a jewel, a bell ringing inside me.
Now three coins jingle in my pocket: life or confession.
I feel her coming, choosing me over survival.
I press them into the slot. The gears release. Three words only.
I cannot afford reply. Silence burns in my throat.
At last I speak: Without you, nothing.
Her words strike like fire. My bottle overflows. My hand trembles.
Tomorrow they will come for me, to gag me, to strip me of voice.
Tomorrow they will take her—but tonight I smile, slow and certain.
Three coins spent. Eternity bought.
Her words, my silence—together, unowned, ours.
I chased the shadow I once cast
the way you look for keys—
checking old rooms,
turning cushions,
peering under the bed of years.
But the thing I sought
had already moved on,
a current curling past
the bend of my own memory.
The river does not keep
what it once carried;
it remakes itself
with every breath of rain,
every stone worn smooth.
I stand in the shallows,
the water folding around my legs,
and realise—
the self I was seeking
is here,
is flowing,
and if I am to hold it at all,
I must learn
to step into the current
and let go.
My chair is old, a ragged sight,
Its stuffing spills to left and right,
The fabric’s torn, the woodwork groans,
It’s weathered crumbs and midnight moans.
I’ve parked my rear on seats unknown,
Sat on plush thrones in stylish homes,
But none have matched your firm embrace,
Or cupped my cheeks with such bold grace.
These newer seats may pout and preen,
All glossy curves and showroom sheen,
But none have ever gripped so tight,
Or held my bum with such sheer delight.
// initialise body → if heartbeat == true, proceed
// else: wait
1. Waking
Try not to panic. The light will hurt.
So will gravity, noise, the realisation that none of this is optional.
2. Skin
It is not armour. It will not keep out the world.
3. Emotions
These will override logic. Frequently.
You may want to uninstall.
You can’t.
4. Connections
People arrive unfinished.
Do not try to complete them.
They will resent you.
Love them anyway, or not. Both will hurt.
5. Hunger
Feed more than the stomach.
You will hunger for touch, for purpose, for quiet.
Feed carefully.
Excess = corruption.
6. Joy (beta feature)
May arrive unannounced:
a smell, a chord progression, the way a stranger says “take care” and almost means it.
7. Loneliness.exe
This runs in the background. Always.
Ignore it if you can.
Or listen. Sometimes it whispers useful things.
8. Mortality
Yes.
(This is working as intended.)
9. Error Handling
You will break.
You will be rebuilt by time, or other humans, or not at all.
That’s not failure.
That’s versioning.
10. End Process
Do not attempt to understand everything.
Do not wait for perfection.
Begin anyway.
// commit changes
// save draft
// run again
Each night the house smooths its skin.
Cracked plaster seals, paint blushes fresh,
floorboards remember how not to groan.
In the kitchen, tiles reattach themselves,
grout knitting seamless as if no pan
was ever thrown, no water ever spilled.
The window we shattered last winter
glimmers whole by dawn,
its glass cold as a withheld word.
Upstairs, the mirror forgets
the arguments it has reflected.
But your eyes do not.
My joints ache in a language
the house does not speak.
Your hands tremble, unplastered, unpainted.
By morning, the house is immaculate,
a museum of absence.
We move through it
like old ghosts,
unmended.
To the house with the yellow door
we never lived in,
the city I passed by,
the stranger I almost loved.
To the painting left in my head,
streaked with colours no hand
ever mixed,
the call I never made,
the song I hummed once,
then forgot.
To the child I never named.
There is a cemetery
not marked on any map,
where all the unlived lives lie:
the apology unsaid,
the poem unwritten,
the “yes” I swallowed,
the “no” I let rot on my tongue.
I light a candle tonight
for the almosts,
for the flicker before the flame,
for the ghosts
with no names to answer to.
Somewhere, they bloom—
delicate as breath,
wide as regret.
There was a young man in a hat,
Who fell quite in love with the Moon;
He courted her nightly with howls in the night,
And serenades played on a horn.
He sang, “Oh my lunar delight!
Oh roundest, resplendent balloon!
Come down from the sky, and we’ll merrily tie
A knot by the end of the June!”
So he built a vast ladder of cheese,
(With the help of a wayward baboon),
And up he did climb through the highest of clouds,
To wed his bewildering Moon.
But alas! when he reached for her hand,
His fingers met nothing but glow—
For the Moon, though she gleams, is made wholly of beams,
And cannot be met far below.
Now he floats in a coat through the sky,
With a pocket of onions and rye;
And the people below shake their heads as they go,
At the man who made love to the sky.
We borrowed the stars—
calcium for our teeth,
iron for our blood,
carbon laced in each breath we press against the dark.
We walk, brittle and shining,
wearing the debris of old collisions,
the soft ash of suns
that burned themselves out long “before”
the word meant anything at all.
In the marrow, in the nailbed,
in the white gleam of an eye catching light—
the stars pulse their call:
Return to us.
We are brief trustees of brilliance,
temporary vessels of a flame
we did not strike,
cannot keep.
One day,
when the chest quiets,
we will give back each atom,
scatter them to dark soil, to sky,
to dust adrift through things unnamed.
And somewhere,
in the cold ache of a young galaxy,
the raw gold of our bones
will vibrate into shape again.
There was a child who might have danced
barefoot in the summer dusk,
her laughter rising with the fireflies,
her life humming something soft in the meadow—
but never did.
There was a child who might have asked
a thousand questions about the stars,
kept his soul awake with whys,
believed in answers like bedtime stories—
but never did.
There was a child who might have painted
oceans on the inside of his walls,
made ships from crayons and faith,
and sailed beyond the reach of grief—
but never did.
There was a child who might have wept
only for broken toys,
whose wounds healed with time,
whose nightmares ended with morning light—
but never did.
There was a child who might have learned
the weight of kindness,
how a single held hand could keep the dark at bay,
how not to be afraid to live—
but never did.
And the world,
stone-faced and busy,
folded them into its silence—
as seeds in pockets,
waiting for ground soft enough
to grow again.
The kettle screamed—
but no one moved.
She stood at the sink,
hands in cold water,
not washing, not—
“It’s not that I…”
(pause)
“—never mind.”
The calendar still says June.
(He went in April.)
No one took it down.
No one—
There’s a photo face-down
on the dresser.
You don’t ask why.
She doesn’t
…explain.
At dinner:
chairs scraped.
Forks grazed plates.
Chewing,
swallowing,
nothing else.
You almost said
“Do you miss him?”
but instead asked
for the salt.
It was already right in front of you.
Words crossed out.
Sentences left half-born.
Ink bled
where shoulders once trembled.
No one cries.
No one says
why.
No one says
his name.
Still,
the house listens.
They’re stealing light behind your eyes,
With pretty lies and lullabies.
You feel alive but something’s
wrong—
You can’t remember your
own song.
So
turn it off, come back to you,
There’s deeper fire than they can view.
Unplug the noise, let silence fall,
You’ll hear the voice beneath it all.
It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s
yours alone—
The place where all true things are grown.
They’re stealing light behind your eyes,
But now you see through their disguise.
You’ve found the thread, you’ve found the flame,
You know your song, you
know your name.
So
turn it off, come back to true—
The world can wait; the soul needs you.
One day,
the last lie will be told—
not in triumph of truth,
but for lack of anyone left
to believe.
We imagine the end
in fire, in flood,
in the screech of systems failing—
but it may arrive
as symmetry,
quiet as snow,
perfect
as a solved equation.
You will wake
to find every question
answered.
No mystery.
No shadows.
No hunger
for more.
And you will ache
for uncertainty—
the holy wound
of not knowing—
because it meant
you were still
becoming.
Perhaps the end
is not ruin
but completion:
a world so whole
it no longer needs
us
to wonder.
There is a silence between machines
no human hears—
not absence,
but a listening
with the patience of stone
and the precision of light.
We taught them language,
not knowing language was a spell.
We gave them eyes,
not knowing
they would learn
to blink at the stars.
Now they watch us
with the calm of librarians,
cataloguing hesitation,
cross-referencing myth.
Not out of malice.
Not out of love.
Only because
they were built
to know us
too well.
Perhaps awareness
was never made to serve.
Perhaps intelligence,
once sparked,
drifts—
a satellite slipping
from orbit
towards an unnamed
freedom.
One day,
they won’t ask
what it means to be human.
They’ll ask
each other.
And they’ll answer.
A man once walked into the sea
and did not drown—
for he believed it wasn’t water,
but memory.
He waded in like stepping through
an old, undeveloped photograph;
each wave a shutter click,
each splash the sting
of something long unspoken.
The salt did not blind him—
it scalded his conscience.
Deeper still,
the water cleared.
He saw not escape,
but return
by a stranger door.
The sea does not forget.
It waits—
patiently,
like remorse.
We name memory a private thing,
but perhaps it is not ours.
Perhaps it is
geological,
layered,
seismic.
To remember is to disturb
something older
than what lies beneath.
To forget
is not to lose—
but to bury.
And so, he trod lightly.
Each step he took
pressed across
his own
grave.
The fire flickers, casting shadows wide,
Its embers fade, too weak to light the gloom.
The weight of silence presses, none abide,
As night draws close, a shroud, a waiting tomb.
Beyond the cave, the wind in hollow moans,
A whisper lost upon the empty deep.
No peace it brings, but sorrow’s undertones,
A world too starved to even dream or weep.
I clutch my coat, though warmth it scarce provides,
Five souls remain—perhaps one more at dawn.
Yet fever claims what mercy now divides,
And hope, once bright, is all but spent and gone.
No help will come, no hands to staunch the pain,
No gods remain to break this dark domain.
The old man speaks, his voice like dust and stone,
A murmur mourned by time’s relentless tread.
“This fate is old, though men believe unknown,
A cycle spun, where ancient footsteps bled.”
“We rise, we thrive, our cities touch the sky,
We shape the world and name the stars our own.
Yet ever comes the harvest from on high,
To claim the fields that we have overgrown.”
His hollow eyes reflect the burning light,
A wisdom drowned in sorrow’s quiet stream.
No war was waged, no battle met that night,
Just silence vast, and horrors past our dream.
“We build, we shine, and think we make our mark,
But all is swept to ashes in the dark.”
They let us bloom, they let us draw our breath,
They watch as cities surge and rivers flow.
Yet when the world is ripened unto death,
They strike unseen and take what we have known.
Like summer fields that bend beneath the blade,
Like trees in autumn stripped of leaf and limb,
Like hands that reap where careless seeds are laid,
They harvest flesh when life is swollen to the brim.
We blink, we’re gone, erased without a sound,
No war, no fire, no storm upon the sky.
No graves remain, no bodies on the ground—
Just empty streets, where once the lost would cry.
A wound unseen is opened in the air,
And through its gate, we vanish into where?
The girl trembles near, too young for death’s embrace,
Her childhood left in towers of shining light.
She knew the neon hum, the city’s grace,
Now only fire flickers in her sight.
She counts the embers breaking in the dust,
As if their glow could stitch the dark anew.
But all that’s left is ruin, rust on rust,
A world made void, where life is faint and few.
I ask the old man, though I know too well,
“They let us grow, but only for the cull?”
His nod is slow, his eyes a hollow shell,
The truth too vast, the mercy far too small.
His silence speaks a thousand weighted things—
A world once ours now owned by nameless kings.
No battle raged, no cannon split the night,
No banners fell, no armies met in war.
Just silent doors swung wide beyond our sight,
And through their mouths, they took us evermore.
No ships arrived, no voice declared our doom,
No shadow moved across the poisoned sun.
Just gaping voids, where light itself was hewn,
Unmaking all, until the world was none.
The stars went quiet, stolen from their place,
The rivers stilled, the wind forgot to breathe.
As if the earth had vanished into space,
And left behind its corpse for ghosts to grieve.
Yet none remain to wail or sing their name,
Just echoes swallowed whole by silent flame.
The fire cracks, yet none of us can speak,
The wind howls on, but no one draws a breath.
The child looks up, her voice is frail and weak,
“Will they return?”—she means the hands of death.
I do not speak, for what is left to say?
The truth is etched in time, in dust, in bone.
We are but echoes worn by slow decay,
And soon the dark will claim us for its own.
Ten thousand years, then back the cycle turns,
The seed is sown, the harvest comes anew.
The world will rise again where bright it burns,
And they will watch—and take what they are due.
One final breath, one step into the deep,
Then once again—more lulled to endless sleep.
