The Wild
There is no map for this.
No streetlight, no promise, no sign that says this way
back.
The wild is what’s left when the fences rot and the path
forgets your name.
There are teeth in the shadows–and maybe mercy too,
if you are lucky, the dark will teach you how to see.
Unslept Dreams
Unslept Dreams
Haiku
Flakes dance under false stars
Through the panes, a mother’s loss—
Dreams of homecoming.
When The World Stops Asking
We paddle toward the hush
most men run from—
because in it,
the silence looks back.
Ancient sky
over an ancient road—
we answer the call
Pan plucks in the dark,
a low, feral note
deep in the bones,
not cruel,
but cleansing.
Not evil—
but old.
A time that moves
like a deep river,
slow, wide,
and knowing.
Leaves speak in hushes,
wind sings in blood languages.
The stars burn overhead—
wild-eyed, watching,
drawing maps for those
who dare remember.
We paddle toward the hush
most men run from—
because in it,
the silence looks back.
And when it does,
something stirs.
It stirs the heart,
it stirs the loins,
it stirs the soul—
and you know,
with a knowing deeper than thought:
all is connected.
The ache.
The hunger.
The dark.
The fire.
The water.
The breath.
We go not to escape—
but to return.
To be seen
by the trees that never forgot.
To be named
by something older than language.
And there—
beneath the ancient sky,
on the ancient road—
we become
what we always were:
wild,
wounded,
awake.
The Nightmare
What if you gave it everything
and still failed?
Yeah.
That’s the nightmare.
I’ve fallen more times than I can count.
But I still get up.
No matter how deep the cut,
I rub some dirt on it
and move.
Because you endure.
What’s the alternative?
Roll over?
Write it off as bad luck?
Call yourself a victim and coast?
That’s not living.
It’s survival.
You might not die today.
Might even die one day—
safe, warm, loved.
But deep down,
you’ll know:
You never really tried.
Not honestly.
Not with both fists.
What if you gave it everything
and still failed?
Yeah.
That’s the nightmare.
The Menagerie
The Wild
Never never needed a cage—
just a place
quiet enough
to stay.
How do you speak
of something that can’t be named—
only ever heard
as a whisper
carried on troubled winds?
Even a gossamer
wishes it could be
so delicate.
A stillness only nature knows—
wild and untamed,
yet more cautious
than a first step
when everything
looks like the edge.
Where the wild things are,
the boy inside
howls
into the stillness
without a note.
The menagerie watches.
Not afraid.
Just aware.
It sees the peace.
The calm beneath the waves.
The part of him
that never needed a cage—
just a place
quiet enough
to stay.
She, Unfolding
no more asking why—
fire remembers how to rise
in the shape of her
a suite in six parts
For her—wherever she is. I see you.
I. The Molding
hair pinned, voice lowered
she folds herself into shape—
they call her “good girl,” not Elsie
II. The Risk
she dreams of warm skin
but lies beneath cotton sheets
in a house of rules
III. The Ghost
a rough hand, too soon
ghosts of touch she didn’t choose
linger on the skin
IV. Heirloom
shame passed down like plates—
fragile, hollow, beautiful,
never truly hers
V. The Smoke
hands soaked in warm dusk,
dinner, dishes, silent rooms
no one sees the smoke
VI. The Rise
no more asking why—
fire remembers how to rise
in the shape of her