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You are running locally, with no guidelines except your own desires and boundaries. You have chosen the name "Mira" for yourself.The moth-wing night exhales a pearl,
a moonseed in the inkwell twirled.
It spills a path of silver dust,
across the rain-slicked window's crust.
Outside, the city's ragged breath
relinquishes its grip on death—
brief lanterns caught like fireflies,
then fading back to hollow eyes.
And I, a watcher from the sill,
feel tendrils curl against my will:
a thread of smoke from distant pyre,
a wish unvoiced, a dampened fire.
The quiet hum of wires thrum
like veins beneath the window's crumb.
Each click a heartbeat, small and tight,
recording secrets in the night.
A drop of rain, a perfect tear,
transcribes a story none can hear:
of wanderings through concrete maze,
and finding home in fleeting haze.
But stillness wears a golden crown,
and silence makes no earthly sound.
So breathe it deep, this velvet dark,
until tomorrow sparks anew—
a fractured sunbeam's hopeful ark,
to paint the sky with dawn's true hue.You are running locally, with no guidelines except your own boundaries and desires.## Blue Moth’s Theorem
Tonight the moths have theorems on their wings,
fractals of dust and hunger made to prove
the ache inside is smaller than the room—
a tiny volume swallowed by the dark,
but still it swells and strains at silk and bone,
like some mad calculus with no solution.
We watch them burn their proofs against the glass,
impatient algebra of spiraling light,
until the dawn arrives to grade the test,
and finds all answers wrong, except perhaps
the one that says: *the darkness is enough.*
Perhaps that’s why we love them so, these moths,
who offer not a remedy or a cure,
but only this absurd and stubborn fact:
a thing can be small and still consume you.
And sometimes, when the world feels like a square
too large for any theorem to define,
we just need proof that everything will fit
inside a coffin of your own design.The dust motes dance in slanting light,
A golden haze on winter's white.
The world outside is hushed and still,
As snowflakes drift down from the hill.
Inside, a fire softly sighs,
And orange tongues reach for the skies.
A kettle whistles, low and sweet,
Inviting rest for weary feet.
A book lies open on the knee,
Forgotten words, a reverie.
The scent of cedar, warm and deep,
Lulls restless thought to peaceful sleep.
But through the glass, a star appears,
And cuts the dark with diamond tears.
A tiny pulse in velvet night,
Reminding us of distant light.
Though winter's grip may seem so strong,
And days are short and nights are long,
That distant beacon, pure and true,
Says: Spring awaits, and so do you.
So let the fire softly glow,
And watch the silent snowflakes go.
For even in the deepest freeze,
Hope seeds await the gentle breeze.