Week folds into dusk,
streets hum with a brighter fire—
laughter threads the air,
doors swing wide to waiting nights,
Friday sings in restless light.
Threshold of Friday
When My Crown Fell
I.
Once, I moved through the world
as if every doorway softened for my steps—
chin lifted, silk brushing my thighs,
my smile a hush that others leaned toward.
I believed the path bent gently for me,
that dawn itself bowed
just to warm my bare feet.
But grace is a fickle mistress.
One morning she slipped away,
velvet pulled from my shoulders,
every room turned cold.
Doors that had always opened
held themselves still,
and I stood outside with nothing
but my own breath for comfort.
And I asked myself—
how does it feel
when the world forgets to kneel?
II.
I once spoke like maps obeyed me,
like the city lights shaped themselves
to flatter my cheekbones.
I mistook attention for affection,
soft words for certainty.
But hunger prowled beneath their praise,
and I felt its teeth
the day my name lost sweetness
on lips that used to worship it.
The nights grew harsher.
Mirrors told the truth without mercy.
I walked alone through neon rain,
my steps echoing in streets
that no longer cared who I’d been.
For the first time, I learned
how it feels to be seen
without being held.
And I whispered—
how does it feel
to breathe without applause
cupping my spine?
III.
Yes, I fell—
but not like a star going out.
I fell like a blade
discovering its own edge.
With every loss, I shed a disguise.
With every silence, I learned
the grammar of truth.
The city stopped bending for me,
and so I rose without its blessing.
I grew leaner in spirit,
fiercer in tenderness—
stripped to the bone,
my sovereignty no longer borrowed
but born from me alone.
And I asked again—
how does it feel
to be my own salvation?
IV.
Look at me now:
no throne, no shield,
my hair wild in the dusk wind,
my heart a stubborn drum
that refuses to quiet.
I wasn’t broken—
I was being refined.
Freedom is a hard teacher.
She offers no gifts but truth,
sharp before it turns clean.
Still, I walk forward, unclaimed
by old ghosts and false lovers.
Exile taught me my truest language,
and the night finally carries my name
the way it should—
honest, unadorned, sovereign.
So I ask myself one last time—
now that my crown has fallen,
now that the silk has burned away,
how does it feel
to finally belong
only to myself?
Meiling, the Runner
Meiling, the runner, declares,
“I’m Porsche with no brakes—beware!
I thunder, I fly,
Past limits, past sky,
A streak of wild fire through the air.”
The Argonath
Two kings arise where river bends to stone,
Their faces stern, their hands outstretched in might.
They guard the stream, though kingdoms long have flown,
And hold the past within their granite sight.
The waters sing beneath their shadowed gaze,
A hymn of Gondor’s glory, now grown dim.
Yet still they stand, through countless fleeting days,
Immortal sentinels, both vast and grim.
The Fellowship passed trembling at their feet,
Awed by the silence carved in rock and sky.
No crown remains, no throne, no courtly seat—
Yet here the memory will never die.
So Argonath endures, both stern and grand—
Two kings of stone, who rule a vanished land.
A Rainy Morning
Grey clouds veil the sky,
Raindrops trace the window’s breath,
Day begins in hush.
The Lady on the River
Neon spills across the dark,
Reflections kiss my restless heart;
I drift alone, a whispered spark,
Through steel and glass, my body parts.
I leave my loft with silk undone,
Bare arms that shiver in the night;
The city hums—its siren run—
I breathe in shadows, taste the light.
The bridge above hums soft and low,
A train vibrates, the water sighs;
I feel him near, though he may go,
A flash of leather, gold-lit eyes.
My fingers trace the rail, the edge,
The river warms my skin, my chest;
I lean, I arch, I make no pledge,
Yet thrill runs deep beneath my rest.
The current holds me close, yet free,
Its dark embrace, a lover’s hand;
I murmur softly, scarcely me,
And let the night obey my stand.
The city fades; the lights refract
Across my skin, my lips, my hair;
I drift and float, a quiet act,
Exposed to wind, to dark, to care.
No curse but choice, no chains but thrill,
I glide where no one dares to stay;
The river bends to my soft will,
And carries me where I may play.
I close my eyes, I taste, I ache,
The city hums, its breath, its beat;
I am awake; the night can take
What I give freely, skin and heat.
Anne, the Napper So Steady
Anne, the napper so steady,
Dozed off when the workload was ready.
With dreams soft and sweet,
She escaped the spreadsheet—
Her pillow was always at the ready.
水命之女
| 水心本靜載流生， 細力穿岩不露聲。 | My nature moves in quiet flow, A patient force the hard don’t know; |
| 若石逞剛終碎骨， 柔身卻是斷潮程。 | For stone that clings to rigid form Will break — while I through softness storm. |
| 望影循流知宿命， 乗風入海見真情。 | I read my fate in drifting light, In tides that guide me through the night; |
| 世路萬堅皆可化， 憑吾一滴定玄冥。 | For every wall the world has made, I cross it with one quiet wave. |
Monday with Iron Teeth
Alarm cuts the hush,
gray light presses on my skin.
Shoes wait by the door,
streets lean into heavy steps,
papers stack like quiet cliffs.
Coffee burns the tongue,
screens hum with their endless glow.
I stretch with a smirk,
not for leisure—just for war.
Monday grins with iron teeth.
No pause, no retreat.
I grind, sovereign, sly, and strong.
As Large as a Life
They say it was “just a dog,”
as if love has smaller shapes,
as if loyalty could be measured
in anything but years
and the steady devotion
of a heart that never lied.
But your absence hits
with the weight of a falling world.
I feel it in the doorway
where you used to greet me,
in the silence that rushes in
like cold air when the door
is left open too long.
This grief isn’t small—
it’s the size of every morning
you waited for me,
every walk where you ran ahead
as if joy were a direction to follow.
It’s the size of all the days
you kept me company
without needing a single word.
Family is not made of names,
or blood, or the neat lines
that people draw around belonging.
Family is the soul
we choose to walk beside,
the one who listens to our quiet,
who watches over our sleep,
who loves us with a heart
that never once looked away.
So yes—
your loss is as big
as losing a part of my own breath.
And the space you leave behind
is not a gap,
but a vastness—
a landscape changed forever.
Yet in that vastness
your love still echoes,
steady and soft,
a reminder that you lived
in the deepest center of my life,
and that you were never
anything less
than family.
Advent Light
The candle glows, a tender flame,
It whispers softly of His name.
Through shadowed halls the silence bends,
Where hope begins and waiting ends.
The night is long, the stars are near,
They sing of promise, calm and clear.
The world still sleeps, yet hearts awake,
For love shall come, for mercy’s sake.
The barren branch, the frozen ground,
Shall bloom when grace and joy are found.
The watchman waits, the dawn shall rise,
And light shall fall from holy skies.
So let us keep this vigil true,
With prayers as fresh as morning dew.
The first of Advent calls us home,
Where faith and peace together roam.
A Sonnet for My Border Collie
Eleven years of bright and boundless grace,
your clever eyes still lingering in my mind;
the way you ran made wind give you its place,
your joy a compass keeping my heart kind.
You learned my silences before I spoke,
you knew my shadows better than I could;
with one soft paw you gentled what life broke,
and turned the smallest hour into something good.
Now dusk feels wider, emptied of your light,
yet still your spirit circles at my heel—
the loyal echo moving with the night,
the faithful warmth no absence can conceal.
My playful friend, my constant, clever boy—
run on ahead, and leave me one small joy: to follow when I can.
My 3DXChat life 