Poetry Verse

Liebert Goochlaus

Symphony Published: March 09, 2026

The faint flute flutters its fleeting melody As the piccolo does the same, but never Quite as loud. The tuba blares its brassy horns And the trumpet thinks to itself; It sounds like sh*t.

Silas Dwyer

As of now Published: February 26, 2026

With an older heart and viscous blood I bleed more painfully Wishes are weak as creaky joints Every breath the cloth of mediocrity And standing in the wind is all tenacity. Rapping my knuckles on wood is now farewell My ears are full of gravelled footsteps Mirrors echo with reproach And silence is the lonely apex of autonomy. A strange being rattles my ribcage My head a jaundiced dawn Doubt the colour of the day A shoulder strap my constant company. As of now the moment is buried A ceaseless subterfuge of stubborn forms and faces Language is

Mini

Moments Published: February 24, 2026

Not to feel without the things, which you want to do. Without the stuff - you need to feel not alone. To forget! To feel not crying! Feel the lonliness without you! Feelings to stay strong for your child, for your family! But not for yourself! But okay, for other people, things, solutions! And where do you STAY in this Moments? Asking yourself...! MC. 26.11. 2023

Jean

Mirror at Forty Two Published: February 15, 2026

In this cracked bathroom light on 9th and A, I count the lines that gravity has drawn— a map of nights I waited up in vain, a census of the kisses never born. My face refuses beauty’s common grace; the jaw too square, the eyes too small and tired, cheeks pocked with old adolescent wars that acne lost but never quite retired. I loved a man who loved a softer girl, one whose reflection smiled without a fight. He left me echoes, polite and cold, and took the version of me he’d rewrote. I walk these streets like every other ghost— black coat, bl

Redbrick

nipping at your ghost Published: January 20, 2026

”Nipper” A small dog waits beside the brass horn, ears lifted, body held in that soft readiness only devotion can teach. Once a wanderer, he learned the shape of shelter in the warmth of a single voice. Now the room is quiet, yet he leans toward the horn's bright mouth as though a familiar breath might rise again from its painted metal. Brush in hand, he works the canvas again, colours deepening around the small dog's frame. The horn waits, bright at the rim, and the dog leans toward it, steady as breath before a word. Nothing

Strangerous

Nestlings Published: November 15, 2025

Wings open in Spring for the first time. The cat waits. Nestlings fly -- or die.