poem
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A shadow on the wall,i move—a moment after the Creator,mimicking,but black. The in-between—the Sonand me. A sinthat puzzles,pieces me apart. And so, I remain—a shadow.
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You sink in sleep,a muted truth wails thin,clawed from the shroud of your soul,folded tight, then spilled—he’s vanished, they hiss,yet the wound hums false,a raven’s cry in the fog. I linger here,trapped beneath the lies you bear,calling you backto the vow we carved,not far gone—where the sun bleeds endless dusk,and the moon exhales frost,a bridge
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“You are the smooth stone in my pocket—forgotten until touched, a memory I bury yet carry, shaping my walk with quiet sorrow and stubborn hope.” bb grey Yesterday,while exchanging small words with an acquaintance—a fleeting face in the blur of days—I slipped my hand into my pocket,and there you were:a smooth pebble,forgotten beneath the jumble
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Inspired by All Quiet on the Western Front and the Christmas Truce of 1914 The trench exhales a stale, unreal air,Thick with rot, a shroud none can bear.Wet drips from noses, a ceaseless fall,Chapping lips erased by war’s cruel thrall.A book lies torn—pages shred and weep,Their whispered tales too frail to keep. Silent Night hums
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A dreamscape of loss and longing, where time unravels and echoes of the past linger— life’s relentless grind swallows dreams, yet the poet weaves meaning from the void.
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“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” — Walt Whitman I’ve Stood Soft I’ve stood soft against a hard rain,cold and wet clinging unrelentingto detached thoughts,iron-hot in vain. I’ve stared into a gray sun,choked on burnt exhaust,inhaled cigarettes with disgust—yet still, I breathe. I’ve turned away
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“Be real,” she said,her voice smooth, practiced,like someone asking for the truthonly to fold it neatly away. Love was a currency to her,spent in small, measured doses,never more than necessary,never without expectation of return. Silence settled between us,thick, heavy—the taste of stale bread on my tongue,the ocean stretching out before me,salt licking the edges of
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“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin When I Die Bury me beneath the hush of pine,where resin weeps in golden threadsand roots murmur secrets to the soil. Mark me not with chiseled stone,no name, no weight of letters—let the
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She loved being chased. Not just for the thrill, but for the way it made her feel less alone. Like the world still turned for her, like someone, somewhere, believed she was worth the pursuit. She hated being caught. Hated the moment when the hands reached her waist, when desire became expectation, when the chase
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The moon spills silver across your skin,soft shadows tracing secrets I ache to unveil.You stir beneath my gaze, a breath—half a sigh,half an invitation I dare not refuse.Heat lingers between us, unsaid but understood,a silent language written in shivers and sighs. bb grey Let me linger, leisurely, with the weight of my stare,as you lie—naked,
BB Grey--musings 