Poems by K. Stan Tinos

I wander lonely where the trees
Stand tall with hearts of stone; their shadows creep
Across the dampened earth. My weary knees
Bear weight of years, each step etches deep
Swoons upon the grass, through twilight halls,
Like cathedral aisles, I move without reprieve.
The mockingbird from barren branches calls,
While skylarks sing their hymn to darkened skies.
Though spring returns, hope's voice to silence falls;
A hollow pleading wind that moans and dies.
Where summer light once drenched the meadow's face,
Now poppies weep, and leafless forests sigh.
My voice, a shattered chalice, spills its grace
Of bitter prayers the wind will never hear.
"O lovers lost at mercy's gate,
O robin, sing! Hope, persevere!"
I call, yet the hollowness won't abate.
No solace warms from winter's hearth; its chill,
A deceptive flicker, bewails the blighted ground,
The sterile dream-seeds in the frozen field.
Fate, by what bleak star? What forfeit has been found?
What invisible chain holds this soul bound?
What potion, oath, what storm that cast its die?
No whisper of forgiveness stirs this stagnant pond.
No gentle breezes stir the unyielding sky;
Only these arms that, empty, grasp the air,
Embracing shades that only memory claimed,
The ghost of warmth, the form once cherished there,
A touch now ash... irreparably maimed.

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.