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The twilight of my heart
Rebels against
The dying night.
Like the fiery stars
That litter the
Your love burns
With brilliant veracity
Regardless of the sun’s
Vibrant obscurity.

The twinkling of Your
Love is only intensified
Against a blackened
Backdrop – other forces
Beguile my eyes, but the
Ostensible truth is that
Your love is there – inextricably so.
Whether I can feel it or not.
Whether I can see it or not.
Whether I can hear it or not.
I know it is there because you
Are in everything that is beautiful
And holy.


Your condemnation of all that I am
and will become
rains down on me like
a harsh and heavy hand—I almost don’t feel it
at first, like a speckle of rain dropping onto my
cheek, your palm—open and surging—
finds its target.

Your disapproving eyes shift into focus—
a flood of words falls from your lips
as your palm forms into a fist
to deliver your strongest message to me.
I am listening but I can’t hear you
over the volume of your pain—

My heart—like wetted cement
drinks in the poison and darkens
like the starless night.
Burning and searing—
your daggered love crashes into me—

The sky bursts free
and oceans cover me dulling the sharpness
of your kind of love—the waters enfold me,
bearing me up

like a Sacrifice for all those vices I have.
Water fills my ears so full I can no
longer hear your arid words. My body,

encased in a flood of tears, can no longer
feel the blow of your anger. My pied

heart, no longer needs your cleansing.



Day’s Rain Is Done
by Aleksandr Pushkin

Day’s rain is done. The rainy mist of night
Spreads on the sky, leaden apparel wearing,
And through the pine-trees, like a ghost appearing,
The moon comes up with hidden light.
All in my soul drags me to dark surrender.
There, far away, rises the moon in splendour.
There all the air is drunk with evening heat,
There move the waters in a sumptuous heat,
And overhead the azure skies…
It is the hour. From high hills she has gone
To sea-shores flooding in the waves’ loud cries;
There, where the holy cliffs arise,
Now she sits melancholy and alone…
Alone… Before her none is weeping, fretting,
None, on his knees, is kissing her, forgetting;
Alone… To no one’s lips is she betraying
Her shoulders, her wet lips, her snow-white bosom.

No one is worthy of her heavenly love.
‘Tis true?… Alone… You weep… I do not move.

Yet if…


Dear Reader, 

Each of these pieces, my poem, the song, and Pushkin’s poem, have a similar sadness to them, but what I wanted to point out before I sign off is that there is hope that one day we will be renewed. Each ends with a glimmer of hope for something more — for something better. I think that’s what humanity needs — we need to see and acknowledge the pain, the darkness…the melancholic parts of our hearts we may try to hide — those are unavoidable realities in life. And they are not easy to deal with or confront, but there is something more — there is hope.

Until next time.