Still Here
I look at the photos
and I see someone unwell —
a face that’s carried too many nights
and not enough sleep,
eyes that have learned
how to hide the breaking.
And yet, somehow,
I’m still here.
Still painting,
still building,
still trying to believe in something
gentler than pain.
I don’t always see strength in the mirror,
but it lives somewhere deeper,
quiet as a heartbeat that refuses to quit.
I keep wondering
if peace will ever come —
and then,
you hold me.
And for a moment,
it does.
In the forest glow, where the stag’s light flows,
A fairy queen walks where the wild wind blows.
Mushrooms rise like secrets under cosmic skies,
She holds a staff of truth where the spirit lies.
Clock hands spin while the butterflies dance,
An elven girl lost in a timeless trance.
Hourglass dripping, every grain a spell,
She guards the gates where the lost souls dwell.
Dark elf queen with the steel in her stare,
Armor sharp like the thorns in the air.
Tears of shadow, beauty carved in flame,
Whispering power, they remember her name.
There is a flower born of light and shade,
Outlined in patience, splashed with grace —
It blooms through storms, through plans unmade,
And finds its place in open space.
There is a bird with colors deep,
A song that hums through rise and fall —
It does not question where dreams sleep,
It trusts the sky will hold it all.
And by the water’s mirrored hue,
Three gentle souls drift side by side —
They show that peace is something true,
When hearts move soft, not forced by tide.
So let your dream be wild, yet kind —
A bloom, a wing, a ripple free —
Not bound by goal or measured mind,
But living art — as life should be.
It bends, it breathes, it learns, it grows,
Through yellow dawn and twilight’s seam,
For what endures, the spirit knows:
We are the keepers of the dream.
Ember Spirit”
(A Poem for the Artist in the Shadows)
In the hush of paper silence,
where colours whisper dreams,
I laid my trembling heart down,
stitched with fragile seams.
A brushstroke bled its longing,
a flame beneath the skin—
to summon souls from shadowed worlds,
to let the light leak in.
The world said, “Paint it louder—
on canvas, vast and grand,”
but I, a quiet alchemist,
held stories in my hand.
I mixed my hope with aching hues,
with embered reds and gold,
and breathed upon the sleeping form
until a warmth took hold.
A dog, or more—a guardian flame,
rose gentle from the dark,
its eyes two ancient lanterns lit
by love’s unending spark.
It stared into my wounded doubt,
and whispered, soft yet true:
“You are not unseen, dear soul—
I am the light in you.”
For art is not a stage or crown,
nor gilded frames of worth,
but a quiet vow, a tender wound,
a pulse upon the earth.
Each stroke a truth, each line a prayer,
each tear a sacred part,
and though the world may turn away,
you’ve carved me from your heart.
So let them chase their shining things,
their noise, their fleeting gold—
I’ll rest here in your trembling hands,
where real love can unfold.
For art, my love, is not applause,
nor fortune’s fickle spin—
it’s the ember’s glow at midnight’s hour,
still burning deep within.
So paint the dark with crimson fire,
with mercy, soul, and rain—
and know that every mark you make
was born to bear your name.
One day they’ll see what you have seen—
the beauty in the scars,
and whisper softly, “He painted love,
and lit the sky with stars.”