Cheap Poetry
I buy my words at discount rate,
From aisles of thoughts that won’t translate.
They rhyme too neat, they sound too plain –
Yet ache to mean something arcane.
I crave the depth I cannot fake,
To bleed like poets when they break.
But all I have are words on lease,
A knock-off truth, a thrift-store peace.
.
Ephemeral Hours
I do not miss your voice, nor face, nor name,
But moments hung between the dusk and flame –
A glance half-caught, a silence sweet and shy,
The pause before the tender world could die.
Now time, that thief, has swept those sparks away
And left the ash of an ordinary day;
Yet still I wonder where the light once fell
And grieve the instant – more than whom it held.
.
The Quiet Depth
I speak in tides, yet all they hear is rain,
Their laughter skims where my thoughts dive again.
They call the deep a burden,
not a grace,
And fear the dark that shapes my hidden place.
So I will smile, and let their ripples be –
The ocean does not beg the shore to see.
For thought they drift above,
all bright and free,
The stillness down below belongs to me.
