Too many hands reach love’s bright door—
blind to the feast, they beg for crumbs.
The earth still turns, but something more
unfolds where love in silence comes.
Yours whispers? Mine is the sun’s cry,
kindling the dark with molten gold.
Planets sway in their silent sky,
tethered to truths too old to hold.
Because love lives, the lotus blooms in mud,—
a sacred flower born of dirt and dark.
Not spilling—no—the well runs deep,
where centuries drink, honey-slow.
Mars bares his chest, the Moon her keep,
bearing the wounds we’ll never show.
Lie to me. Truth me. Burn or fade.
I’ll be the tide that floods your shore.
Bound by the stars the old gods laid,
the pull that makes the black holes roar.
And when you gasp at how we blaze—
two shadows cast from one pure flame—
know each scar, every ash-lit phrase,
was love, signing its sacred name.