Category: AI Art
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22 Sept: Mourngale – The Liturgy
21 of 27 Liturgy of Mourngale: The Unbroken Sons I. The First NoteIt begins not as sound, but as silence outgrown—a wound too vast for quiet.This is not a cry;it is a hymn threaded through the ribs,a melody that remembers your namewhen you have forgotten your own. II. The Colour of Dusk-FeatherMourngale is the blue…
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22 Sept: MicroDosing 80µg
Wind cut through the trees not like a visitor, but a thief returning to the scene of the crime — carrying scents of wet earth; petrichor’s ghosts of rain; breath of graves. Leaves fell in a slow, silent surrender, moss drank from the dark, and the roots twisted in their sleep. Decay was not an…
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21 Sept: Mystical Sunday
An Old Hunger She watches the clouds —her grey wild horses.They snarl at rain,muscle the sky. A single flame wavers, left hand for memory,right hand for will.Intention.Intention.She pulls the darkest oneto her, andcalls it by name. Winter is long andits darkness is an old hunger, so she sits with it.Lets it drink from her tea.Lets…
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21 Sept: A Wuyan Poem
A Gushi Wuyan Style Poem Bend of the road ahead,shadows dissolve in air.One tree leans toward silence,clouds drift without return. The path forgets its start,grass leans against the wind.I walk, not asking where,only the sky replies. Note: this poem is written in the Wuyan (五言) style, an ancient form of Chinese verse. Wuyan literally means…
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20 Sept: dVerse Imagist
Black Waits (an imagist poem) Black window stares across the street.Black curtains hang, charcoal cloth.A child coughs.The mother hushes him —black sleeve across his mouth. Black rain shines.Even puddles reflect black —broken buildings,black coat flapping against wind. Black comes quiet:mail left unread,a room kept shut,a name swallowed whole. Some things root in blackness —moss in…
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20 Sept: Ten Things of Thankful
In no particular order: One of my dearest friends had TAVR surgery (heart valve replacement) — all went well, and she’s already back home. Thankful that it wasn’t our underground sewer drainage pipe that collapsed. My poor neighbour across the street. Diggers to arrive tomorrow to start work making a trench for access. Thankful that…
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19 Sept: A Six Sentence Story
Crow A crow bows its head over a weathered day, hooked beak probing this, that, and memory. Its black ribs stitch the horizon as rain threads the air, dissolving the field beyond into a smudge of ash. Crow, pilot of the deepening gloom. Crow blackness of feathers drinking in greyness — a moving void against…
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19 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
The Sea Soft as a held breath, it speaks —pebbles learning rhythm,each stonea lifetime smoothedand given back. The sun rests behind a veil,its gentle mercy,not wanting to scorch. Wind and water barter secrets,a salt and hush trade in tides.And he stands listening,a child of this quiet moment, so let the sound wash your bones —those,…
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18 Sept: From the Oracle
From the Oracle —A Cadralor: Once the Sea, Now the Snow I.It is coming —the season of white,of silent claiming,of soft annihilation. II.Once, I was rain —the blessing, the renewal.Once, I was the sea —deep, boundless,salt-blooded and sure. III.Now, the field lies gripped,withered to the root,begging for rainlike victory, like mercy,like an oak strainingin the…
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17 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
Verdict Wind Blink—and it’s raining cats and dogs,clouds inked in bruisesgallopingacross a sky. The crow shrieks —sparrows vanish mid-flight. It gives pause.A flutter.A missed beat. I count them on beads —knotted threads soakedwith intention. Was it us?Was it them?Why does this wind feel like a verdict? It pulls at the hem of the world,whispers under…
It's Still Life 