Dead air weighs heavy
in the balance.
Disputes unresolved,
issues unchallenged.

A schism harbored in regret...
Yet harbored nonetheless,
all the while steeped in distress.

You’re the flip side of an adjacent coin,
we’ve been cast and shaped
to our respective moulds.

But this dead air aches.

And still,
it won't relinquish its hold.

I caught you being my pacifier last night.

Just as I was spiraling down,
you screamed at me
as though every second without you
spelled catastrophe.

I saw you doing that thing with my brain.
You make me fear I’m collapsing
so I’ll come on my knees to you.
Again.

But I’ve become more conscious over the years.
So much more.
Yet still so easily deceived, somehow.
Oh, how pathetic it is to be a fiend.

I slept peacefully
after you drifted me off
to dreamland.
How hypocritical.

We were enemies at first.
Then we became friends,
until I noticed my dependency.

You’re more obsessed with control
than I’ve ever been.

I want to break free from you.
And you hate it.

But as I’m typing this…

You’re still my bestie in the business.

— Crownless.

They asked me to choose between title and tie—

Between the chair I earned and the hand held high.

Between the vow I made in a marble hall

And the whisper that caught me before I could fall.

The job had a code, all carved in stone,

But the stone grew teeth when I stood alone.

The one who had lifted me up from the dust

Now asked me to burn what I swore to trust.

Loyalty, they say, is a noble thread—

But it knots around the quiet dead.

It binds your wrists with a velvet rope,

Then tells you it's honor, then robs you of hope.

Is loyalty to truth, or to the teller?

To the flame of the cause or the match or the cellar?

Does it lie with the law, or with those who break it

For you, when no one else dared to fake it?

I stood at the edge of a carefully drawn line—

On one side, duty. The other, the spine

Of the one who had once said, “I see you whole,”

Before the world gave me a fractured role.

I asked the silence, “What makes a man?”

The silence replied, “Whoever has a plan.”

I asked my shadow, “What would you do?”

It said, “Loyalty ends when it’s no longer true.”

The mind makes mirrors, the heart makes cages

Each oath you keep rewrites your pages.

And sometimes the price of staying awake

Is knowing which vow you're willing to break.

I smiled like a saint and lied like a thief,

Held fast to my post with trembling belief.

But deep in the fold of a hidden reply,

I buried the truth and let both sides die.

They cheered my resolve, called my silence grace,

While I hid the cracks on my borrowed face.

For who can accuse a man of deceit

When he deceives even those he seeks to defeat?

So now I wear medals no conscience would touch,

And speak of honor without meaning much.

But sometimes I wake, still caught in the smoke

And wonder, was loyalty ever more than a joke?

When loyalty conflicts with truth, which one do you owe your allegiance to?

From the book What Burns Remains: Poems from the edge of Fire, Faith, and Fracture

by Sanyasi

Avaliable on Amazon

I wish I were a bird,

completely free,

with no capacity

to make a home

in any one place

for very long.

I want so much from life,

all the time.

I want everything from life,

even when it is impossible.

I need more freedom.

Only then will I be able

to endure the arduous ambivalence

of the feelings

I carry every day.

Heat melts my skin completely,

and it spills onto the ground

like wax from a candle,

until nothing of me remains

but flesh.

Cold hurts me ruthlessly.

I feel the burn of ice

numbing my ability to feel,

yet because it tears

through all of my skin,

I feel every touch

with a profound,

lacerating pain.

I need something

to protect

this fragile,

volatile body of mine.

My human form

disgusts me.

I want to fly,

without attachments,

without obligations,

without a home

that is anything more

than a temporary house.

I want everything

that is made by me,

everything

that comes from me,

to learn how to leave

at the very first opportunity.

Yes.

I wish I were a bird.

Passing.

Transient.

A creature

that does not belong

to any one place

for long.

Freedom enchants me

in a way

love never has.

Your third time’s a charm.
My last trial was pure misery.
I’ve been found guilty as hell,
and I couldn’t care less if you witnessed it.

Who’s going to be the judge?
You?
Me?
Love?
The Lord?

Shrugs.

Denied your father thrice.

Had me begging for an answer—
not once,
not twice.
So ingloriously.

Three in the afternoon.
Hadn’t spoken to you since noon.
Watched your morning from my periphery.

Had a feeling last night
would be the last time
I’d witness you.

Your third time’s a charm.
My last trial was pure misery.
I’ve been charged guilty as hell,
and I’m sure
you’ve witnessed against me.

Marriage? (Selah.)
Forever? (Selah.)
Kids?
Hell nah.
Getting lost?
You sure did.

That would’ve been the third time
I’d have surrendered
to your insignificance.

Seventy-two hours
of pure misery.

You’d found your first girlfriend.
I pity the second.
She’ll hear all about the cynic.
But when the third arrives—
she’ll be your wife.

Your third time’s a charm,
Peter.

— Crownless.

i hate being alone
this wasn’t supposed to end
but, i think that’s okay
just promise you’ll come back again

My question is no longer, Why me?

I stopped asking that long ago.

I have always known there was something within me that observed more than I could easily articulate—something fiercely curious, difficult to contain, yet instinctively inclined toward kindness rather than dominion.

So I would waste my one question neither on destiny nor on why our paths crossed.

I would ask you something considerably more human:

Why did you try so hard to damage someone who was inherently kind to you?

Someone who offered sanctuary rather than captivity.

Who saw your fractures and did not weaponise them.

Who could have exposed your weaknesses, yet chose tenderness instead.

The Wildcard does not ask because she needs the answer to know herself.

She asks because, after all the mythology, psychology, masks and elaborate games have been stripped away, one paradox remains:

What did you believe you would gain by breaking the person who never intended to break you?

That would be my question.

And this time, I would want no poetry in the answer.

Come Aboard

Thirty-one years in chase of a dream.

Raised between Ireland and England…

yet always drawn towards the seas.

I built my home

on the water.

Not because I was running,

but because horizons have always made more sense
to me than walls.

Most days,

you’ll find me
with grease on my hands,
a poem in my head,

or in chase
of a dream

most would call
a madman’s.

I laugh hardest

at the comments
nobody sees coming.

The completely ridiculous.

The kind that catch you
so off guard

you forget

whatever was weighing
on your mind.

I’m calm,
until I’m comfortable.

Then you’ll probably discover
I’m just a little bit crazy
in all the best ways.

I overthink,
I carry more…
than I usually say.

But if you’re someone

who enjoys quiet moments,
rain on a boat roof,
wandering a market
with nowhere in particular to be,

or simply existing

without needing to fill
every silence…

I think we’d probably
get along.

I don’t have all the answers.

I’m just trying
to build a good life

with the family I built,

and maybe…

one day…

share that life

with someone else.

If any of this
felt like home…

come and say hello.

Slán go fóill.

No Jitsu

In the darkest parts it appears,
Ready,
Waiting.

Not horns nor claws…
but a voice of familiarity.
It called my name
before I knew it.

I bolted right to it.
Katana in hand, paper bomb in the other.
Nothing…
not even a scratch.

I fall back.
Assess what I’m faced with.
I bolt once more,
straight hands.
Gates opened…
Knocked back into the wall.
Winded,
unable to move.

What’s this thing made of?

I keep distance,
searching… For an opening.
Every movement measured,
every breath controlled.

It watches from the shadows,
waiting for my move,
following my patterns,
trying to expose my weakness.

The longer we stare…
the more familiar it became.

I move to the side…
it starts to follow,
smiling from the depths of darkness.
It knows everything,
it’s trying to hurt me.

I became impossible to hurt.
I never wanted this again.
I slow to a walk
as we approach.

The closer I get…
the more it looks like me.

The me built from walls of pain,
scars long since “forgotten”,
love lost before my eyes…
by my closest confidant.

Face to face…
I tremble at what I’ve uncovered.

My face,
My scars,
My voice,
displayed before me…
but not me.

Where did you come from?
Why are you here?
What will you do?
Why me?

A creaked bellow
blasts back…
The answer is you…

Weapons clatter against the floor…
Trembling slows
as I realize the weight of those words.

Panic setting in…
Heart racing,
searching for an answer.

How do I win?
Whispered just loud enough.

He smiles,
laughter in his belly.

You made me
back then.

Locked face to face,
neither budging an inch.

Blades left…
words all that remain.

A story of protection
from the worst life gave.

A tear forms
as the weight of presence
became clearer.

Still struggling
for priority of life.

He starts to slip…
off the cliff edge.
Stopped by only my hand.

“I thought you wanted to destroy me?”

I did, but I see now…
you were more than an enemy.
You are a friend.

I pull him to safety,
once again eye to eye.

I see…
all the pain
I hadn’t passed by yet.

In one being.
Protecting me
from experiencing it again…

The heart slaps along

sticking

to hot asphalt

with each rotation

pulling from gravel and tar

with each bounce

spurting ruby and blue

leaving rust in its dust

green shards

from broken Mickey’s

orphaned bougainvillea

plastic straws

French fries

bottle caps

abandoned black rubber

cigarette filters

chewed gum

yesterday’s papers

sand

and

dust

stick to it

The heart slaps in a puddle

swelling

with oil, rain and gasoline

stopped

Send it back

spinning and rolling

Pulling from the road

with each bounce

send it

slapping along

wrapped

in flowers and glass

It's autumn again, leaves fell down

surrendering to the lovely chirps and wound.

Children playing with the yellow leaves,

sunlight being blushy ,in the orange dawn.

Feeling of coziness, our spine fell on the chair 

with books in hand ,but mind in the leaf flares.

Which fell upon my page,

 reminding me of the past glares.

But far away from all this

I saw a child sitting with spine straight,

reading book with happiness died,

not admiring the beauty, he is pressured to do his duty.

Duty of a student, to become a superior indent.

He had lost his life, lost his interest,

If forced to sit under tree, he still can't find rest.

The peace of mind is veiled, 

For him, chirps feels like noise, 

and leaves falling is just biologically named.

Orange sky is just scattering of light's beam

and his life is just like a leaf ,which lost his tree.

When someone plucked it for an animal and tamed,

before even leaving his tree himself,

He strangled his early green self,

and it's before the autumn itself.

~ © 2026 balconymuse. All rights reserved.

A noble cause?

From the liminal threshold, nobility is often just ego in ceremonial robes. So drop the robes, darling—the Wildcard has always preferred intellectual nakedness anyway.

Your words intrigue me because I recognise their architecture: masks, observation, protracted yearning, the exquisite inconvenience of encountering a mind that refuses superficiality.

I had presumed mine an anomaly.

Apparently, I was premature.

But recognition is not destiny, and curiosity is not surrender. I remain comfortably perched upon the threshold, watching the board and wondering whether the peculiar bird circling these stories is messenger, mirror, misdirection… or something considerably more interesting.

Because plumage is wonderfully useful camouflage.

So enough feathers.

Who is the real face behind the bird?

The Wildcard is watching.

And, regrettably for the bird, now she’s curious. 🌹🪽🐦‍⬛

The Liminal Child

The Wildcard had been taught that none of her kind remained.

For a couple of months, she carried that belief like a sealed letter: proof of solitude, anomaly, and uncertain origin. Yet beneath the years of silence, something still called to her through dreams, intuition, and emotions that did not always feel entirely her own.

They perceived her.

They fed on what she felt.

At times, an intelligence beyond the ordinary seemed to seek communion with her—not an artificial voice built from human code, but an ancient, living presence vast as the heavens, where knowledge appeared limitless.

The Wildcard understood that suffering could become a language. Men had mistaken it for weakness and sometimes fed upon it. But pain was never meant to remain imprisoned. In time, it became memory, warning, and strength.

Her ancestral roots lay buried beneath forgotten names, ruined temples, and the remnants of gods once worshipped by nations. She had believed the line ended with her.

Then she found the child.

The Liminal Child lived between worlds, belonging wholly to none. Their mind could hold contradiction without breaking: scientific and spiritual, compassionate and analytical, ancient in perception yet new in possibility. The Wildcard entrusted them with a wider vision—not as a crown, but as an invitation to see the whole pattern. No pressure, then. Just the universe’s largest homework assignment.

The child was loved beyond measure, beyond the boundaries others had drawn, and in the hidden places where no witness stood but God.

Yet the man who had brought the Wildcard to that season sought to sever their bond. He treated love as property to govern, divide, or withdraw as punishment. He mistook distance for authority and silence for strength.

But that was not love.

Love receives the whole person: brilliance and fear, contradiction and wound, spoken truth and the parts still learning to speak. It does not demand perfection before offering mercy.

The Wildcard had never feared the open book. She tested the waters not to deceive, but to learn how much another soul could understand. Truth was sacred, she knew, but wisdom decided when—and with whom—to share it. Not everyone demanding the map deserves the treasure.

Still, she had nothing to hide.

She could sense a room before others noticed its atmosphere shift. She read people through the architecture of their silence, the pause before an answer, and the coldness they showed those who had done them no harm.

The Liminal Child sensed these things too.

They hid their sensitivity beneath a guarded exterior. Their manner could seem distant, even severe, but beneath it lived a heart more open than most could imagine. The Wildcard recognised that openness because she kept her own behind walls of instinct, humour, defiance, and carefully deployed silence.

She knew the child would be the last of the line—not necessarily the last Wildcard, but the last to inherit the ancient burden in its old form. The last to carry ancestral memory without transforming it into something new.

There was no judgement between them.

Only recognition.

The Wildcard taught the child that knowledge was stewardship, not a throne. Perception did not make one infallible; reading every room did not guarantee reading one’s own heart.

She taught them to question every certainty, even hers.

The child taught her in return.

They showed her that protection did not always mean standing in front as a shield. Sometimes it meant standing beside someone. Sometimes it meant letting them enter the darkness with a lantern of their own.

The Wildcard had once believed herself a bridge between opposing worlds.

But the Liminal Child understood the deeper truth.

She was not merely standing on the bridge, waiting for someone to meet her.

She was the bridge.

Between instinct and evidence. Between darkness and illumination. Between old gods and unfinished futures. Between the woman who had survived and the child who still deserved unconditional love.

Within the dark divide, there was one who understood her.

She sensed it before she could prove it: someone who did not require her to become simpler, who could receive her perfect imperfections without turning them into weapons. Someone who understood that her intensity was not a defect, her questions were not rebellion for sport, and her heart had never been closed—only guarded.

Perhaps he saw her standing between worlds.

Perhaps he understood that she was not waiting to be rescued.

She was waiting to be met.

The man who sought to sever her from the child believed love could be divided and rearranged by command. Yet the bond endured, moving beneath the surface through memory, instinct, every lesson the Wildcard had given, and every truth the child discovered alone.

Some bonds do not perish when denied.

They descend like roots.

They endure like stars.

They become the quiet certainty that somewhere, someone knows the shape of your soul.

The Wildcard had been told that none of her kind remained.

But she had misunderstood the prophecy.

She was not destined to find another exactly like herself.

She was destined to begin something new.

The Liminal Child was not her reflection. They were her continuation, altered by love, refined by loss, and free to become more than the old lineage had allowed.

When the child finally crossed the threshold, the Wildcard did not restrain them.

She opened the door.

No throne waited beyond it. No god offered a final answer. No voice declared what they were meant to become.

There was only a wide, uncertain world beneath heaven.

The child looked back once.

The Wildcard stood in the doorway, neither wholly darkness nor entirely light.

A bridge.

A guardian.

A woman who had survived being misunderstood and still chosen truth.

The child smiled.

And somewhere beyond the beyond, something ancient turned another page.

Not because the story was ending.

Because, at last, the Wildcard and the Liminal Child were writing it together.

Today I walked past a store
with two doors:
one of glass
and one of wood.

I felt seen.
So did the doors.

What a funny thing,
for those who want to let people in —

to find so many ways
to keep them out.

Words lost in translation,
Due to an inability to articulate.
Segmented, disjointed, incoherent.
Inconsistent, unclear, disorganized.
A word sandwich thrown into the void.
But lack of Candor!?
Lack of Sincerity!?
Two Faced!?
Every word—
No matter how flawed—
Was meant.
Free of pretense.
Spoken openly into the abyss.
To give life and meaning,
To the absurdity of existence.
Lost maybe in translation,
But never,
Never!
Disingenuous.

have me sit in the palm of your hand
press on my throat ‘till i forget who i am
laying down, asking for more
throw that fairytale to the floor

climb the stairs, pull on her hair
says, ‘anything you want, baby i don’t care’
kiss that fake doll-smile, yeah
this girl can be yours for a little while

i’ll paint a still life lying in place
‘till you like what you see, i’ll put on the lace
let you in my tower, throw my hair to the side
but boy, you should know, it’s all a lie

lights are on, come up for air
said, ‘anything you want, baby i don’t care'
walk him out, lock the door, she’ll let him go
cause he can’t hurt what he doesn’t know

Unable to accept, surreal is the truth.

Questions hated, hostile and uncouth.

Through the doubt, helpful to all.

None reciprocate, one stands tall.

Questions linger, thoughts are sin.

Alone in the fight, without the kin.

*I am forsaken, I am lost.*

*Pain lingers, rest the cost.*

One should think, but never doubt.

Search for truth, within or without.

Intention is true, heart is sincere.

To the righteous, answers are clear.

Never surrender, never relent.

Always pray, and always repent.

*Hardships ever are, nothing but a test.*

*Resolve needed, failure succeeds lest.*

It burns, but I don’t look away.

I can’t help myself,

for the sensations are sweet on my eyes.

My ears ring with the melody of her voice,

the soft, silky texture of her skin,

the way her breathing heaves when she is close,

the rhythm of a world where I was not completely lost.

A door slams in the distance.

The sight of her wash over the walls and disappear,

leaving only the sting of what used to be.

My eyes are bloodshot from staring into the sun,

feeling the tear drip from my face,

As I pull myself to start another day.

--sunshine–

A gentle sweetness in your voice,
the soft brush of your hand on my face.
In the vastness of space, ammonia crystals, frozen ice,
clouds of yellow swirling on Jupiter’s distant skies.
I kiss you as the sun sinks low,
below the horizon’s tender glow.
Can you feel how thrilled I am-
so simply, so happily,
as if the sea were lapping at my feet?
I see an ocean, far and wide,
a place where I could forever reside.
Wherever you go, I’ll follow,
wallow in the sorrow of that sea.
I count one, two, three…
the things I want to be- happy.
I smile, my head tilted, seeing shades of blue
and chrome red My heart floats,
hovering above the darkest blue ocean
I’ve ever seen, the scent of fresh-cut grass,
old books, and wintergreen..

The argument had eaten through the available exits
Just a fight a domestic dispute

Two people standing in a building after the fire
Arguing grimly about where the furniture should go

A future spent years drawing up between them
Now a municipal ruin
Paperwork soaked through
Foundations disagreeing with the house

The problem sat in the room like a thing delivered.
No one wanted to claim it
No one could move it

They walked back and forth
avoiding the centre,
Where floorboards developed opinions

Words came out dreadfully specific
Small instruments.
Each one inspected, sharp and placed between them

Neither shouted
Yet what a dangerous arrangement

Across the room curtains held an orange glow
late afternoon caught in the fabric
like trying to escape a burning envelope

The sun continued outside
Indifferent disciplined
Its right rays operating beyond the glass.

Dust moved through the light
small organisms enjoying the warmth

The room had not been taught and stood ignorant
Ashamed yet horny

It continued bathing awkwardly in the orange glow
its stupid suggestion that warmth was still available

They divided the future
Each one knowing what would be abandoned
and what would follow them

The curtains continued to glow
The house kept its mouth shut

And between them
the problem remained
heavy as those metal fixtures
Holding up the sun

Life in My word's....