Blueprint of desire

Poems

The Demon Core.

It sat there, a seed of ruin,

a smooth body of promise

dressed in the skin of inevitability.

It wanted to be touched,

to be named.

You crouched over it,

a god in a white coat,

thinking you could coax

truth from its silence.

But it spoke

in an old language,

a language of split atoms

and collapsing stars.

The screwdriver slipped.

A flicker of light,

not warm like a flame

but cold—

a wound opening itself.

You called it criticality,

as if naming could contain it.

But the air thickened.

Your bones knew

before your mind—

you would carry this with you,

burning quietly,

a second heart pulsing beneath your ribs.

Outside, the world held its breath.

The wind, indifferent,

dragged leaves across the pavement.

And still it waits,

at the edge of memory,

this core, this seed,

this demon

that never sleeps.

---

Before the Snow.

All night the sky holds its breath,

the world suspended,

waiting for something soft

to unmake its edges.

The trees, stiff with expectation,

lean into the stillness,

their bare arms poised

like questions unanswered.

You feel it too,

in the marrow of the house,

the slow ache of waiting.

The windows hum faintly,

a song only the cold can sing.

And beneath the silence,

the ground whispers of change,

a promise buried

in the frozen dirt.

Morning will come,

a pale unveiling,

when the sky finally breaks

and offers itself

piece by piece.

You’ll step outside

to meet the world remade—

each flake a small blessing,

each drift a new forgetting.

---

The Shape of the World.

They say the universe hums,

threads thinner than light

vibrating in dimensions

we can’t name or see.

Once, I thought the world

was solid—

stone and skin,

the weight of bodies

pressed against the earth.

Now I see how it frays,

how every moment

unravels into threads.

You search for the pattern,

the hidden loom weaving

time into what we call real.

But it escapes,

folding inward,

a knot too intricate to untie.

Perhaps we are only echoes,

songs sung by strings

that twist through the void,

our lives brief harmonies

in the silence.

Still, we reach out—

fingers brushing the edges

of something infinite,

hoping the vibrations

will hum back

with a shape

we can understand.

---

Blueprint of Desire.

He saw the world in planes,

lines that bent to his will,

stone coaxed into flight,

glass singing its hymn

to the open air.

This was not architecture,

but defiance—

walls dissolving

into the horizon,

roofs hovering

like wings poised to ascend.

He dreamed of houses

that breathed with the earth,

roots tangled in rock,

streams running through their veins.

Shelter, he thought,

should not cage

but cradle.

Yet there was vanity

in his genius—

a god’s hunger

to carve beauty from chaos.

His houses stood,

monuments to balance,

but inside, cracks formed—

a marriage faltered,

a child’s shadow lengthened.

What he built endured,

a geometry of longing,

each corner aching

with what was almost perfect.

And still, the light pours in,

angles softened by time,

a testament to what remains

when we try to shape the infinite.