The Weight of Holding On: Poems collection No.1

The Pomegranate

I chose it carefully—
lifted it from the pile like a relic,
turned it over in my hands,
listened to the weight of it,
as if fruit could whisper its own secrets.
It was the color of old bruises and burning horizons,
red with the memory of sun and soil,
a thing swollen with promise.
It whispered: I am worth the mess.

But I hesitated.

My mother always told me—
Do not choose the bruised ones.
Do not reach for what others have left behind.
She said the world does not reward such tenderness,
that mercy is a weight, not a virtue,
that the heart should be cautious in its hunger.

And yet, I always did.
Always reached for the ones that seemed forgotten,
the ones left at the bottom of the bin,
skins rough, edges imperfect,
as if neglect itself had carved them into something lonely.
I had convinced myself that beauty hides,
that sweetness grows where others have stopped looking,
that what was left behind could still be whole in my hands.

And maybe, just maybe,
even the ones too far gone deserved to be chosen,
deserved to feel, for one brief moment,
what it was to be wanted.

So I carried it home,
set it on the counter like an offering,
cut it open,
expecting an eruption of light,
an avalanche of glistening rubies spilling into my hands.

But there was no sweetness.
No burst of abundance, no hidden treasure.
Only rot—
a core eaten away by time,
by waiting, by something unseen.
The seeds, black and shriveled,
collapsed at the touch,
turned to dust in my palms.

For a long moment, I just stared,
as if my wanting alone could undo the ruin,
as if love itself could reverse decay,
as if hope was enough to keep something from dying.

But some things rot from the inside out,
silently, slowly,
while the world still believes in their wholeness.

Still, the pomegranate had been beautiful.
Still, I had carried it home with hope.
Still, I had believed in sweetness.
And that, too, was worth the mess.

Quantum Entanglement

It was nothing—
a moment, a passing current,
words exchanged like scattered leaves,
meant to drift, meant to disappear.

And yet, something lingers.

A hesitation too slight to name,
a glance that should have slipped unnoticed,
but instead, it held—
not long, not deliberately,
just enough for silence to stretch,
for the air to press heavier between us.

Did you notice?

I tell myself you didn’t.
That your voice carried on, steady, untouched,
while mine wavered beneath the weight
of something unspoken.

It should be nothing.
It must be nothing.

And yet, the mind is cruel with memory,
tracing the shape of that second,
folding it over and over,
as if there is meaning in the smallest of shifts,
as if the briefest of moments
could belong to something more.

I let it go.
Or at least, I pretend to.

But I wonder—
if I were to look again, just once,
if your eyes would catch on mine,
if you would pause—
just slightly, just enough—
to make me doubt the pretending.

The World Remains, and So Do I

There are moments—
rare, flickering moments—
when the sun spills gold over the hills,
stretching its quiet fingers across the earth,
kissing the mist that lingers like a forgotten dream.
And for an instant, the world is whole.

The sheep, unbothered,
draped in wool and morning light,
move like soft waves across the meadow,
chewing, breathing, existing—
as if history has not been written in blood,
as if the earth does not tremble beneath its weight.

But the world is not whole.
It is splintered, fractured at the core.
A place where kindness is devoured before it can root,
where love is rationed and meted out
like bread in a city under siege.
I have seen men crush beauty beneath their heels,
not out of malice, but indifference—
as if it were nothing more than dust.

And still, the laws of the universe remain indifferent.
Time does not slow for grief,
nor does light bend to illuminate the lost.
Entropy swallows order, cell by cell,
until even memory collapses
into the abyss where all things must go.

But beyond this—
beyond the weight of ruin,
beyond the silence where prayers dissolve
and the sky remains unmoved—
there is something else.

Not seen, not grasped,
but known in the marrow,
in the spaces between breaths,
in the moment before the first light of dawn
when the world is neither dark nor bright
but suspended in something softer,
something eternal.

Perhaps the world is only a field of probability,
a wave function yet to collapse,
a thing both ruined and whole—
and we, the unfortunate observers,
trapped in the tragedy of measurement,
forced to witness what might have been
but never will be.

Hope is a frail thing, a starving thing,
dragging itself forward, unwelcome but persistent.
It has taken residence in me like a sickness,
a fever that will not break.
And yet, what else is there?
To let go would be a quiet relief,
to drift like the sheep, to forget—
but I cannot.

I am cursed with memory,
cursed with the unbearable knowledge
of what was lost,
what was stolen,
what will never be again.

And yet, I remain.
A witness to a world that wounds
even as it offers glimpses of grace.
A world where a child’s laughter still rises,
thin and defiant against the noise,
where the sea still hums against the shore,
where your eyes, in the last light of dusk,
still remind me of something
that once felt like home.

The air is thick with grief,
heavy with the weight of all that is broken.
Still, the sun rises.
Still, the sheep do not know.
And still, I hold on—
not because I believe the world can be saved,
but because I was made to hold on.