In the quiet embrace of the fog, the world is transformed into a dreamscape; shrouded in mystery and wonder.
It is a sanctuary to God’s creatures who roam and call it home,
and to souls who either melt in the embrace of natures hug, or thrive in it during a hunt in the wilderness, venturing deep into the veil of fog for prey.

Today, I stepped outside to experience the serene air kissing my skin, the fog blanketing the woods in front of me beckoned me with its allure,
my eyes also catching the gold and brown leaves, whispering tales of autumn’s end.

I look to see the bare branches reaching out like fingers yearning to touch the misty air,
and in that fleeting moment, suspended in time, I captured a glimpse of the desire that emanated from the trees.

Its a reflection of my aspiration, to embody that quality in my life, to reach out and languish into the fog, being alive yet one with it would be a dream— as that would mean I would be forever trapped in a state of serenity or peace.

And if dreams become reality, then I implore whoever sees me fading into foggy stillness to keep from reaching out and let me be,
for in that moment I am happy,
I am free.

In the river of time, we drift and glide on life’s current, side by side.
We flow together, bound by routines and survival’s embrace, with some finding solace in their pace and others who bear burdens, heavy and wide.
Yet despite our different paths, the goal for all remains unchanged, to stay afloat and abide.

We journey on this temporal stream, experiencing moments both shared and a dream.

For me, floating adrift for nearly three decades, it was in my recent path that I set myself ablaze,
consumed by flames of renewal, a heart reborn. In time’s river, I’ll continue to soar.

In the scorch, I let myself burn, shedding the old, bitter me that yearned to extinguish God’s goodness within.
Anger and resentment threatened to consume,
plunging me into dark, endless gloom.
Yet, like a phoenix, I rose anew, enlightened, with self-awareness shining through.
From the ashes, l emerged, reborn and free,
snuffing out the flames that once consumed me.

As I rise, the future’s dawn, In 2025, a new path drawn.
No longer bound by insecure ties, the past’s weight, I bid goodbye.
Goodbye to burdens heavy shadows, threatening to cave in on me,
goodbye to the whispers of names and flawed reflections;
I’ll let the flames of courage soar, And watch the past, forevermore.

With gasoline, I’ll set it free,
from chain of doubt I’ll break with glee.
A resolution blazes, fierce and true,
In the horizon’s arms, I’ll soar anew.
From the ashes, I rise, wings spread wide,
embracing the sky, my spirit twirled.
Let it all burn, in the night’s embrace,
I’ll find my freedom, in this vast space.

I see you.
Not just the you they pretend to notice,
but the you that lingers in shadows,
weighed down by whispers that won’t hush.
The you that wonders if silence
is the only way to be heard.

I won’t lie to you—
this pain ain’t easy to carry.
It seeps into your bones,
fills your lungs with the weight of nights
that stretch too long, too heavy,
too empty.

I know the darkside.
The way it calls your name like a lullaby,
promising rest where the world
only offers war.
I know how it feels
when the walls close in,
when every breath feels borrowed,
when hope is a language
you forgot how to speak.

But listen to me.

There are others who walked this road,
stumbled, fell, but still found their way.
Not because the weight vanished,
but because they learned—
somehow, some way—
to shift it,
to share it,
to bear it just one more day.

So if tonight feels like the last chapter,
I beg you—
turn the page.

Because the story ain’t done.
And neither are you.

Grief is a kingdom you never ask to rule.
A place with no stars, no dawn to break.
Endless night.
A place where echoes live longer than voices,
where shadows wear the faces you’ve lost—
but never quite get them right.

It crowns you in silence,
wraps its cloak around your ribs,
tightens until your breath comes in fractured whispers.

I thought I was ready.
I told myself time was mercy—
that knowing would soften the blow.
But grief doesn’t strike like lightning.
It seeps in slowly, like poison in your veins,
until one day you’re gasping,
and you don’t even remember what air felt like.

I try to remember her laugh—
but it’s like chasing smoke.
Somewhere in my mind,
her smile is fading at the edges.
Her voice, just a ghost of a ghost.

I keep pictures tucked away in drawers.
I can’t look at them for too long.
Each glance is a wound,
each memory a blade turning slow beneath my ribs.
But without them, she slips further from me.
I am caught between needing to remember
and not being able to survive it.

How cruel it is—
to lose her twice.
Once to death, and again to time.

My son was born after she left.
A few fractured weeks between his first breath
and the silence she became.
His due date was her birthday.
As if the universe thought irony was a kindness.

Since I was 18,
I have been carving out a life with trembling hands,
mistaking silence for strength,
mistaking independence for survival.
But I was wrong.

Strength is standing in the ruin
and naming every piece.
It is saying:
This hurt.
This still hurts.
It is learning to breathe in the dark.

They don’t tell you how grief is a thief—
how it steals the good with the bad.
How every sweet memory is chased by regret.
How every second of love feels borrowed.
How guilt hangs on your shoulders like a cloak
you can’t remove.

I should have stayed longer.
I should have loved louder.
I should have grown up faster,
instead of pretending I had all the time in the world.

I still don’t know how to carry this.
Most days, I bury it beneath busy hands and silence.
But it always finds me—
in the quiet, in the stillness,
in the moments when her name rises to my lips
but never makes it past my teeth.

Grief is a kingdom,
and I am its prisoner.
There are no windows, no keys, no doors.
Only the ghosts of what could have been
and the weight of everything I didn’t say.

And yet somehow,
even in this shadowland,
I am still searching for light.

So last year my mom was diagnosed with AML and immediately our lives changed instantly, we quit looking at 6 months from now and were thankful for the moment, we still planned ahead but new anything could happen, well Thanksgiving came and noticed my mom wasn’t acting like MY MOM, we had planned a Special Thanksgiving with homemade egg rolls and she was sleeping a lot, well we were praying and Trusting God and on Dec 15th we would take her to the hospital.The doctor told us her instines were twisted and asked if the cancer was being treated our hearts sank, We were planning on spending Christmas with my mom, but the 17th of December I had to sign a DNC for my mom, Everyday I spent with my mom was short.Dec 22nd she would pass away.I spend Christmas eve getting her grave site ready, Im STUNNED at what happened.We now cherish EVERY DAY and WILL MAKE HER PROUD.

The couch. I bought the big leather couch, chair, and ottoman back in 1999 or 2000 I think. I was working on the boats at the time. Had a few boatguy friends that would come right before or right after season to hang out… some pretty big guys. I bought the big furniture in a time when you could get that set for $1500 I think. And it was built to last. I still can’t believe how well it was made compared to what you get now for the same price.

A crush and my brother helped me get it into the house..and it wasn’t easy.
When my ex and I bought this house it wasn’t any easier getting it in here.

Last Spring I tried to get it out of here by myself and quickly realized I might die trying. While it was still standing on end from my attempt at finagling it out the door, I cut out the material on the bottom and saw the bones of it… it was beautiful.. real wood, lots of it… straps were as high quality as the best ratchet straps of today. The springs across the bottom were thick and solid. I cut open the one cushion that had finally broke down, and those springs too, were heavy duty. I ordered a replacement spring pack, which was much lighter built than the original I found, not the old, solid, barely squash support of 25 years ago. I took an awl and sewed the leather back together. I bought a slip cover (pretty nice one) thinking, I could rescue this couch, build it back better and not just toss it away.

As time went by, I just couldn’t sit on it. It sat empty. It looked better on the outside, but it sat like a big ass sad emblem of itself. And it had been ruined from the inside, of another who defiled it.

Gone were the multiple big asses that sat on it, at times slept on it. Gone were the dogs that had curled up on it, scratching it ever so slightly with their paws. Gone were the times I could curl my feet under me, or lay across it with my head in another’s lap watching yet another hunting show…or even better, Walking Dead.

I had hinted to others that I wanted it out, for the past 9 or so months. No one took the hint. I think some things are just meant to be done on your own. So the other night….

I cut it’s coverings off… razor to leather… the leather on couches from back then was much better, thicker, more like hide. Cut out enough foam to get to those nice big chunks of wood that were it’s frame with the skillsaw. Cut it into two manageable pieces… scooted it out the door (still had to get the right angle to make it happen).. pushed it down the stairs, and dragged it to the the far end of the yard.

As I poured some expired peanut oil on it, and put a couple of dry pieces of wood in a cardboard box in the middle of it to get it started…. a sadness engulfed me… as the fire would soon engulf the couch. I had started this with anger, but it ended with grief. Like for real grief.

As I watched that fire (I couldnt believe how fast it went up), the last 24 years of time with this couch went through me.. along with the 21 years with him….it still took a couple of hours to realize that it was just time for it to go, and for me to let go of the idea that I had made it better, built it back better, and to let go of the idea that I could ever sit on it in comfort again.

It was grief.

Then, today someone mentioned to me that I had burnt a couch on the evening of the Super Moon. So there’s that.

As I lay to sleep crowded of fear.
Full of sadness.
Jammed with uncertainty.
I wake loaded with courage.
Bursting of bravery.
Packed with vulnerability.

i lie on my back staring at the ceiling,
waiting for the numbness to crawl in,
but the world fades instead,
the air thins, and i hear it breathing.

from the corner she unfurls,
a shadow too wide for the room,
her hollow face sinks beside me,
her gaze pins me to the mattress.
i do not move.

the walls buckle as he arrives,
his limbs bending to fit,
grinning like he knows how small i am here.

his fingers scrape down the plaster,
the sound breaks into me,
a weight settles in my ribs.
every inhale feels stolen,
the room shrinks and i cannot scream.

i escape to reality,
my gaze jolts from corner to corner,
there’s nothing left and no one here,
yet my skin stills stings from the burn of eyesight; i will not be sleeping tonight.

We dance in joyful essence as a group
We gather in robust laughter as a family
We shoulder the duties of work diligently as partners
We cook in companionable camaraderie
But why do we cry alone

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
The more I step out of that silent box, the more my inner critic tries to peek through.
The more I raise my voice for my truth, that burden of “silence protects” tries to scream louder than before.
I’ve held my breath for far too long.
Bit my tongue more times than I should “to keep the peace.”
I’ve stood frozen in spots I should have walked away from.
Acknowledging what was is not what is has been a work in progress.
These mini steps that have turned into big steps have been exhausting yet fulfilling.

Imposter Syndrome, it’s real.
It does not define me, nor will ever define my character. I will not allow such. This voice will now be told across all the noise.
My truth will inspire.
I will gracefully inhale and exhale this breath of mine.
My tongue will no longer hold scars.
I will no longer stand frozen, for I’ve defrosted a long time ago.
What was is just that, was. What is, is just that, is.
These big steps I’ve created have gotten me so far. To this moment.
Bigger steps are being made.

Imposter Syndrome, it is real.
But, it is not me!