Eyes Are For Sight And For Tears, And It Cries At What It Sees

Finding my feet

In a land where shadows softly creep, 

Where unknown paths and secrets sleep, 

I found myself, a stranger's face, 

In this new, uncharted place.

The streets were whispers, tales untold, 

With every step, my heart grew bold. 

Though fear did knock, I stood my ground, 

In this strange place, my feet were found.

The skies were foreign, stars anew, 

Yet in their light, my courage grew. 

With every dawn, a chance to see, 

The beauty in this mystery.

Through winding roads and hidden lanes, 

I danced in sun and welcomed rains. 

For in this place, so wild and free, 

I found the strength to just be me.

The city breathed, a living art, 

Its pulse became my beating heart. 

Mountains rose like ancient kings, 

Whispering tales of timeless things.

Rivers flowed like veins of gold, 

Through valleys deep and stories old. 

The wind, a voice both soft and strong, 

Sang to me a foreign song.

In markets bright with colours rare, 

I found new dreams within the air. 

Each face, a book with pages turned, 

In every gaze, a lesson learned.

The night, a velvet cloak of stars, 

Guided me through near and far. 

In this place, both strange and grand, 

I found my feet, I made my stand.

Surviving storms with steadfast grace, 

I carved my path, I found my place. 

In every challenge, strength did grow, 

In every trial, a chance to show.

Living fully, heart and soul, 

Embracing life, becoming whole. 

With every breath, a song to sing, 

In every moment, blossoming.

Thriving in this newfound land, 

With open heart and outstretched hand. 

In this place, both wild and free, 

I found my home, I found me.

the impossible return

listen, the silhouette of a person is more human than AI will ever be. can you hear me? you are a body, the soul is nothing without the body, there is no consciousness without time and space, and in the computer exists neither. is this thing on?

Luck I by Joy Sullivan

There are soft things in the world my child;

petals to soothe your thorn-scratched hands.

Warm houses, while the wind whips wild,

and friends who leap at your command.

enjoy my dog painting…

And why?

The instrumental becomes intrinsic if you let it

the way ivan aivazovsky looks at the sea…i think…i think that’s what love looks like.

Gently I tuck another idea to rest in the mausoleum - an archived document, dead.

Melodramatic, I loudly intone that I had the best intentions to finish the work, and yet…

Damnit, it happened again.