delos ~ a poetry collection

loneliness
It is a wonder how, even when
surrounded by people, the human
brain is convinced it is alone, and the
human heart feels nothing is more
certain than its loneliness.
~
written October 12, 2026

next time, find this place
Next time, sit somewhere no one
will find you. A place where the
loudest sound is nature, not ninety
numbskulls nipping silence in the bud.
A place where you can see the sky and
the ground. A place where the brain can
think and the heart can feel and the
eyes can cry their many tears
all without judgement or the
attention of something that
would care about the humanity of it.
I could spin the story to make me feel better,
but the truth is that nobody has
hugged me all day and it hurts
much more than I let on.
I am fading away piece by piece, and
nobody sees it as something worth noticing--
nobody cares.
~
written October 12, 2026

telepathy
what is reading if not two minds meeting ,
a story being told without mouths or bodies moving,
merely words being given
and made anew by a new mind?

books are not just words pressed
into ink being blotted on a page.

books are bridges built not to be burned, but
crossed. to bless brains with beautiful imagery
and a magic held in the fingertips not as a tool,
but as a gift.

this is a magic that if unknowingly wielded
could spell disaster.
to take care with words
is to take care with a magic
with which we’ve been blessed.
a magic made not by talent or
natural adeptness, but by mindful care.

if you do not take these words lightly,
let this telepathy take place.

~
written October 18, 2026

clockmaker
If there is, in this harsh and brutal life,
any semblance of care from any artful clockmaker
wound high in the skies trapped between stars,
then mark me not as a nonbeliever,
but as a person looking to have the delicate hands of time
move to make masterpieces of kindness rather than cruelty out of my life.
Make not tears fall like glass from the sky;
make not jagged, cutting steel out of the soft rays of moonlight.
Give me not wounds worth salting, but a soul made safe to bare.
O Clockmaker, if you are capable
of working the world you
welded together and
carefully constructed,
hear my pleas and apply them.

volatile, imperfect, ours
The sun is a layered, imperfect thing, 
speckled with sunspots, granulations, 
and loop-like prominences. 

It expels energy in violent eruptions
of solar flares and bursts of solar winds
that spread out like tendrils through our
solar system. 

Our human eyes are imperfect, too--
unable to stare directly at the sun
without protection or coverage, 
instead giving fleeting glances like shy lovers
across crowded ballrooms. 

For centuries, we were content
with knowing nothing
about the light that gave us life. 

We closed our eyes and melted like wax
beneath the heat it gave. 

We harnessed the sun in fire, 
watched it from the other side of tapestry-covered bulbs, 
used it in lamps and other certain small portions. 

But one day, we opened our eyes
and stared at our shadows until we could stare
at the sun.

Through watching the darkness, we saw the light. 
And while we watched, we learned
that while the sun is volatile and imperfect,
it is uniquely life-giving, and it is uniquely ours.