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The Missing Scroll

They said: is it not written…
but the page is torn away.
We search the silence,
finger the seam where ink once lived.

Faith begins here—
not in triumph,
but in the ache of absence,
the wound of a vanished word.

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O brittle circlet, forged of gold yet hollow,  

Thou weigh’st upon my brow like leaden sin.  

I wore thee once as heaven’s chosen shadow,  

Now find thee but a mask that mocks within.  

Sweet Anne, my gentle star, thou art departed,  

And Sheen lies broken, as my heart lies too.  

Thy breath once stayed my wrath when I was parted  

From reason’s hand; now rage is all I woo.  

What is a king, when love and faith are fled?  

A painted saint, enthroned yet powerless.  

The sceptre shakes, the crown bows down its head,  

And majesty dissolves in emptiness.  

Thus falls the dream that I alone could keep:  

A throne of visions, buried deep in sleep.  

The King Who Dreamed Too Far

He dreamt a throne of light, not steel,
 a sceptre raised to bless, not bind.
He thought the crown a covenant,
 a flame of heaven, not a coin of men.

But lords weighed land, not visions;
 they counted swords, not stars.
His voice, a psalm in marble halls,
 fell hollow where the market roared.

He spoke of majesty as sacrament,
 while others bartered power like grain.
He built a palace of glass ideals,
 and wondered why stones broke it.

Misread, mistrusted, misaligned,
 he stood apart, a figure out of season.
Not tyrant only, nor saint entire,
 but a man who dreamed the wrong dream
 in the wrong room,
 at the wrong time.

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Incense

The boy kneels, the air thick with incense,
 his lips moving through half‑learned prayers.
The crown waits on a cushion of velvet,
 gold glinting like sunlight on water.

The lords murmur, the bishop lifts his hand,
 the boy’s eyes follow the drifting smoke.
It curls upward, soft, unthreatening,
 a scent of sanctity, a promise of peace.

Years later, in a stone‑cold cell,
 he breathes the same smoke —
not incense now,
 but the dust of his crumbling crown.

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The Child Who Bowed Too Soon

He knelt as if the floor were altar stone,
 palms pressed, lips shaping psalms half‑learned.
The candlelight made halos of his hair,
 a novice heart rehearsing grace.

Yet outside, banners cracked in wind,
 lords weighed their swords, not prayers.
The boy was bound not for the cloister’s bell,
 but for the hollow clang of crown.

Innocence bent beneath inevitability,
 a child who might have prayed,
 but was compelled to reign.

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"Bridge of the Unsent"

Every word is a bridge half—

built across distance,

I fold the silence into paper,     

address it to your absence,    

and let the ink wander

where my voice could not.

collapsing into the river

before you ever arrive.

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"Echoes in the Graduated Cylinder”

In the glass throat of morning,

a single drop measures memory—

not by volume, but by ache.

Calibrated silence,

etched in milliliters of longing,

where each mark recalls

a moment we didn’t name.

The meniscus curves like a question,

hovering between surface tension

and surrender.

And still, the drop waits—

not to fall,

but to be seen.

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the world enters unannounced.
the body gives its final measure.
the rhythm that keeps time
             for every word.

at first glance: 

a lantern catching the outline of a face. 

on the last vigil:

 the same lantern guttering at the threshold. 

it's always:

the act of seeing, which 

keeps the world from vanishing.

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a lantern catching 

the outline of a face. 

the same lantern 

guttering at the threshold. 

the act of seeing, which 

keeps the world from vanishing.

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