Poems by K. Stan Tinos

Her hand once held the silver moon on high,
A vow unspoken in the night's embrace.
Now vacant winds through hollow chambers cry,
And love's ardent glow has fled without a trace.
The bed, once warmed by her impassioned sigh,
Now bears the chill where fervor burned away.
No voice disturbs the hush of last goodbye--
But silence mocks the dreams of yesterday.

Her chestnut tresses, soft as woven thread,
Once tangled through my fingers, light as air.
Now severed strands lie where our visions bled,
And all that's left is time's unyielding glare.
Her eyes, twin torches guiding fortune's tide,
Now coldly turn, unmoved by love ignored.
Where Chronos grinds to dust what Fate has tried--
She walks unbound, while I stray, unmoored.

I call her name--O night, your cloak denies!
No echo stirs, no presence lingers near.
Her lips, now foreign, bloom in other skies,
Their phantom touch still whispers in my ear.
A golden thread once bound her soul to mine,
Now snapped and lost upon the heedless main;
Yet in the gloom where lost hopes entwine,
Her visage smiles, immune to love's refrain.

Like dawn that gilds the sky yet brings no heat,
She slips beyond the grasp of what has been.
I reach, I plead, but luck will not repeat--
No touch, no shadow stirs where love had seen.
Yet in the hush where sorrow silent lies,
A whisper lingers, frail as autumn wind,
For love once lost still sings where longing dies,
A ghost that haunts, yet never hopes to mend.

Our pulse isn't broken; it's charge
no words dare explain:
Jagged thoughts like live wires, thunderous, unbarred,
a primal cry in dawn's cold flame
or midnight's hum. We dive, we plunge
through searing highs and crushing lows,
where feeling drowns what reason chose,
that cautious voice, a measured lunge.

Not "sadness." Not quite "joy" expressed.
Like neon rain on streets unblest,
a mind aflame with stars confessed,
where clock-hands stutter, halt, arrest.
Some days we're maelstroms, fierce and wild,
Some days mere embers, cooled, unlit.
No measured metronomes are we,
we fracture, bend, remake the script.

So feel it raw, that voltage surge
through synapse-storms in rogue design:
Minds that race, then crash and purge,
senses that scream, unconfined.
Not unhinged, but tuned to soul
that thrums beneath the surface calm:
A chaos ancient, bold, and whole,
our difference is the lightning's psalm.

No cure required. No "fix" to find,
just hands to hold when darkness slips.
We ride the swell, unbound, maligned,
while the world sleeps with sealed lips.
For every mind that veers off-grid,
a cosmos logic never kissed.
We're a storm forged through mortal flood,
Humming: We exist.