“Poetry begins where language forgets itself and feeling takes over.”
- Keefer Schoon.
01
The Language of Silence
[ 2025 ]
There are words that live without sound,
rooted in the pauses between breaths —
where thought softens into feeling,
and feeling dissolves into light.
I have learned to listen to what remains unsaid:
the hush before a word is born,
the tremor of ink on paper
that doesn’t know where to begin.
Perhaps silence is the truest language,
untranslated and whole —
a river that carries everything
we could never name aloud.
And so I write,
not to fill the quiet,
but to honor it —
to hold a mirror to the stillness
that keeps us alive.
02
The Memory of Light
[ 2025 ]
Once, I believed memory lived in the mind.
Now I see it shimmer
on the walls of my old room,
in the shadow of hands
that once shaped my world.
Light remembers everything.
It folds itself into corners,
rests on forgotten brushes,
waits on the dust of abandoned pages.
I walk through it carefully,
each reflection a story,
each flicker a voice saying —
You were here. You mattered.
And though I move forward,
some part of me lingers in that golden hour,
where memory hums like music
you can’t quite turn off,
only listen to,
until it fades into peace.
03
The Art of Becoming
[ 2025 ]
Art is not creation — it is surrender.
The brush, the word, the note —
each one a gesture of release,
a way to let the world move through me
without resistance.
I am not the maker,
only the witness —
to the pulse of color,
the rhythm of air,
the trembling edge of thought
before it becomes form.
Every poem, every sound,
is a confession of being alive.
It asks nothing, promises nothing —
it simply is.
And when it ends,
I return to the silence
that started it all —
a silence that feels like home,
that whispers, again.
04
The Language of
Silence
[ 2025 ]
There are words that live without sound,
rooted in the pauses between breaths —
where thought softens into feeling,
and feeling dissolves into light.
I have learned to listen to what remains unsaid:
the hush before a word is born,
the tremor of ink on paper
that doesn’t know where to begin.
Perhaps silence is the truest language,
untranslated and whole —
a river that carries everything
we could never name aloud.
And so I write,
not to fill the quiet,
but to honor it —
to hold a mirror to the stillness
that keeps us alive.
05
The Memory of Light
[ 2025 ]
Once, I believed memory lived in the mind.
Now I see it shimmer
on the walls of my old room,
in the shadow of hands
that once shaped my world.
Light remembers everything.
It folds itself into corners,
rests on forgotten brushes,
waits on the dust of abandoned pages.
I walk through it carefully,
each reflection a story,
each flicker a voice saying —
You were here. You mattered.
And though I move forward,
some part of me lingers in that golden hour,
where memory hums like music
you can’t quite turn off,
only listen to,
until it fades into peace.
06
The Art of Becoming
[ 2025 ]
Art is not creation — it is surrender.
The brush, the word, the note —
each one a gesture of release,
a way to let the world move through me
without resistance.
I am not the maker,
only the witness —
to the pulse of color,
the rhythm of air,
the trembling edge of thought
before it becomes form.
Every poem, every sound,
is a confession of being alive.
It asks nothing, promises nothing —
it simply is.
And when it ends,
I return to the silence
that started it all —
a silence that feels like home,
that whispers, again.
07
The Language of Silence
[ 2025 ]
There are words that live without sound,
rooted in the pauses between breaths —
where thought softens into feeling,
and feeling dissolves into light.
I have learned to listen to what remains unsaid:
the hush before a word is born,
the tremor of ink on paper
that doesn’t know where to begin.
Perhaps silence is the truest language,
untranslated and whole —
a river that carries everything
we could never name aloud.
And so I write,
not to fill the quiet,
but to honor it —
to hold a mirror to the stillness
that keeps us alive.