hybriddhthepoet

[hybriddhthepoet]

The Emperor’s Rest

Chapter 3

The night stretched long over the capital, the sky suffocating in its darkness, the stars smothered by clouds. A storm loomed beyond the city walls, thunder rolling like the growl of some ancient beast. Within the palace, the air was thick with the scent of decay, the faint perfume of dried myrrh unable to mask the truth of the rotting corpse that sat upon the golden throne. Calvus stood before it, staring at what remained of his Emperor, his mind weighed by the conversation in the temple. The High Priestess had planted a seed of doubt within him, one that refused to wither.

“You hesitate.”

The Emperor’s voice slithered through his thoughts. It was as sharp as it had been in life, yet something clung to it now—something deeper, something insidious. It no longer spoke as a man did. It did not waver, did not breathe between words. It was simply there, pressing against Calvus’ mind as though it had always been waiting for him to listen.

“She is an enemy to us,” the voice continued. “You know what must be done.”

Calvus did not answer. His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He had carried out a hundred executions in Aurelian’s name before. Traitors, spies, conspirators—he had bled them all in service of the empire. But this order was different. Lyria Cassian had not plotted against the throne. She had spoken the truth. And yet, truth had become dangerous in a court built upon silence.

“My Emperor,” Calvus said carefully, “to silence the High Priestess is to risk the wrath of the Solar Divine. The people listen to her voice as they once listened to yours.”

Aurelian’s form did not move, but the air grew heavier, the torches in the chamber dimming as if the darkness itself had drawn closer. “They will listen to you,” the voice insisted. “You are my voice now.”

Calvus felt the weight of the words settle deep within him. He had spent his life serving this throne, ensuring that Aurelian’s will was carried out without question. But was this truly still Aurelian? Was the thing that spoke through rotting lips still the man who had once ruled an empire with clarity and strength? Or was something else looking through his hollowed eyes?

The thought curdled in his mind, unwanted yet undeniable.

He bowed low, as he always had, but when he spoke, his voice was not the one of blind obedience. “As you command, my Emperor,” he murmured, though the words felt heavier than they ever had before.

He turned and left the chamber, the feeling of unseen eyes burrowing into his back as he walked away.

The corridors were empty, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows against the marble. The storm outside had reached the city now, rain beginning to drum against the palace walls, a slow, rhythmic sound that only added to the weight pressing upon him. His footsteps echoed, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the halls. He moved with purpose, but in his heart, he knew he was no longer certain of the path ahead.

The palace was silent at this hour, its noble occupants long since retired, their dreams likely filled with schemes and ambition. But there was one who still wandered the halls, a shadow moving through the dark.

Cassius Severian, Captain of the Imperial Guard, was waiting for him.

The man was a relic of the old wars, his face weathered, his body still carrying the strength of a soldier who had seen a hundred battles and survived them all. His cloak was heavy with rain, his breastplate gleaming beneath the dim torchlight. He looked at Calvus with eyes that saw too much, that had always seen too much.

“You’re troubled,” Cassius said, his voice low. “It is written across your face.”

Calvus hesitated. There had been a time when he had spoken freely with Cassius, when they had fought side by side in the Emperor’s name. But the court had changed them both. Trust had become a fragile thing, easily broken.

“A shadow lingers over the palace,” Calvus said at last. “The longer the throne remains empty, the more dangerous it becomes.”

Cassius studied him for a long moment. “And yet you do not name the true threat.”

Calvus met his gaze. “Would you believe me if I did?”

The captain did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his cloak and withdrew something small, wrapped in cloth. He unfolded it carefully, revealing a glass vial no larger than a man’s finger. The liquid inside was thick, dark as ink.

“The poison that killed the Emperor,” Cassius said. “Or so we thought.”

Calvus stiffened. “You found the source?”

Cassius shook his head. “No. That’s the problem. This isn’t any poison we’ve seen before. The apothecaries say it is not alchemical, nor herbal. It does not match anything in their knowledge.” He paused, his expression grim. “And yet, his body remains.”

A cold realization settled over Calvus. If the poison had been meant to kill, then why had Aurelian not truly died? Why did his soul linger, bound to the throne that should have released him? The High Priestess had spoken of unnatural forces, of something greater than mortal hands at work. He had dismissed it as superstition. But now, as he stared at the vial in Cassius’ hand, he could no longer afford to ignore the truth.

Something unnatural had taken root in the heart of the empire.

Cassius closed the vial, his expression unreadable. “You and I both know that power does not simply fade. And yet, it is changing. Corrupting. Whatever sits upon that throne—it is not the same man we once served.”

Calvus felt his pulse quicken. He had spent every moment since Aurelian’s death convincing himself that his Emperor still lingered, that he was still carrying out his will. But hearing it spoken aloud, voiced by another, made it real in a way that he had been unwilling to accept.

If Aurelian was no longer Aurelian, then what remained?

Cassius fixed him with a steady gaze. “Tell me, Calvus. Do you still serve the Emperor? Or do you serve something else?”

The words lingered between them, unspoken yet heavy with meaning.

Calvus did not answer.

Outside, the storm raged on, drowning the city in its fury. And within the palace, the whispers of something ancient curled through the halls, unseen, unfathomable, waiting for the moment it no longer needed to whisper.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Every Mistake

By HybridDH

In the journey of life, mistakes we make,

Lessons learned, give us strength to partake.

They shape our path, guide us through the unknown,

Every misstep, a seed, from which growth is sown.

With each stumble, we gain wisdom and insight,

Every error, a chance to make things right.

Mistakes, they teach us resilience and grace,

A reminder that we're human, in this vast space.

They remind us to forgive, both others and ourselves,

To embrace imperfections, as life's intricate delve.

For in mistakes, we find our truest reflection,

And in redemption, we find hope's resurrection.

Every wrong turn, a chance to find a new way,

To rise from the ashes, and seize a brighter day.

So fear not the missteps, the blunders we face,

For they're but stepping stones in life's intricate embrace.

Embrace every mistake, as a gift to be treasured,

For they mold us, shape us, and help us measure,

The depth of our character, the strength of our will,

Every mistake, a path to fulfill and instill.

So let us not shy away from the errors we've made,

But embrace them with gratitude, for the growth they've conveyed.

For mistakes, they build resilience and strength,

And lead us towards a life of purpose, at lengthy

[hybriddhthepoet]

The Emperor’s Rest

Chapter 2

The streets of Kael’Zir were quiet beneath the weight of the Emperor’s death. Even those who had never seen him, who had only known his presence through proclamations and golden coin, felt the void that stretched across the empire. Taverns hummed with whispers, merchant stalls traded more than just spices and silks—they exchanged theories, fears, and dark mutterings of what came next. The empire had no heir. The throne, though occupied by a decaying corpse, was empty. And an empty throne was an invitation to vultures.

Lord Regent Calvus Varro moved through the corridors of the palace, his footfalls barely more than a whisper against the polished stone. The walls bore the stories of past Emperors, frescoes of Sun Kings in their prime, each one gazing down with solemn judgment. Aurelian’s own visage had been immortalized in gold leaf, his painted eyes following Calvus with an unrelenting presence. Yet the man himself remained behind in the chamber, decaying, speaking words that were no longer entirely his own.

The Council had been restless. Even before the Emperor’s body had cooled, they had begun their dance, circling for power, pressing for succession, alliances shifting like sand in a storm. Some backed the old noble bloodlines, the remnants of dynasties long absorbed into Aurelian’s rule. Others whispered of the distant cousins of the imperial line, those with even a drop of divine blood. And then there were those who sought to break the cycle entirely—those who saw opportunity in the death of an Emperor.

Calvus had listened. He had spoken when needed, measured his words carefully. He had assured them that the empire would not fall into chaos, that stability was still within reach. They did not yet know that Aurelian still whispered from his throne, that his voice echoed in the chambers of a dead man.

At first, he had told himself it was his grief playing tricks on him. The voice had been clear, firm, as if Aurelian sat in council beside him, unshaken by the poison that had stilled his heart. But the more Calvus listened, the more he realized that the voice was changing. The orders were still those of an Emperor, still rational, still filled with the cunning and intelligence that had once ruled the empire. Yet there was something beneath them, something creeping into his speech, something that did not belong.

He did not sleep that night.

The next morning, a summons arrived from the Grand Temple of the Solar Divine. The High Priestess, Lyria Cassian, had requested an audience. It was not a request he could refuse. The temple held the people’s faith, and faith, more than gold or steel, could shatter an empire.

Calvus made his way through the temple’s great doors, past the towering statues of the celestial pantheon. The air smelled of incense, of burning sage and old parchment, of offerings left at the feet of forgotten gods. High Priestess Lyria stood at the altar, clad in the crimson and gold robes of her station, her silvered hair woven with threads of sunlight. Her expression was unreadable as she turned to greet him.

“The empire mourns, Lord Regent.” Her voice was soft, yet it carried through the cavernous space. “And yet, something stirs beneath it.”

Calvus inclined his head. “Faith will guide us through these dark times.”

“Faith is not blind.” She studied him, her golden eyes searching. “Something lingers within the palace.”

A chill ran through him. He had never spoken of the Emperor’s voice to anyone. “What do you mean?”

“The Sun Emperor’s soul should have passed into the embrace of the divine, yet the flames in the sacred braziers flicker unnaturally. The omens are clouded. And I have dreamed of shadows in the halls of the Auric Palace.”

Calvus was silent. Lyria had been the Emperor’s spiritual guide, his connection to the gods that the empire worshipped. She had known Aurelian since he was a boy, had whispered blessings over his crown. If anyone would sense that something was wrong, it would be her.

“You have always been a man of reason, Calvus.” Her gaze did not waver. “Tell me—does your Emperor truly rest?”

He wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell her that she was chasing phantoms. But the weight of the voice in his mind, the cold press of unnatural knowledge slipping through Aurelian’s words, made the lie heavy on his tongue.

“He lingers,” he admitted at last.

Lyria closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. “Then the empire is in more danger than we feared.”

Calvus felt his pulse quicken. “Explain.”

“The gods do not allow the dead to remain. If the Emperor still speaks, then something holds him here.” She turned to face the altar, her fingers tracing the engravings upon the sacred relics. “Did he leave behind unfinished deeds? A betrayal unresolved?”

“He was murdered.”

The words tasted like iron.

Lyria’s fingers stilled. “Then justice must be served.”

Calvus nodded. “I am hunting the poisoner. But I have found nothing—no trails, no whispers, no missteps. It is as if the assassin vanished the moment the chalice touched his lips.”

The High Priestess opened her eyes, and there was something in them—something ancient, something knowing. “Perhaps you are searching for a man,” she said. “But some poisons do not come from mortal hands.”

The weight of her words settled deep within him. The court was filled with enemies, with noble houses vying for power, with generals watching from the sidelines, waiting to strike. But what if this was something else? Something deeper, older, more insidious than ambition?

He left the temple with more questions than answers, the scent of incense still clinging to his cloak. Night had fallen by the time he returned to the palace. The halls stretched long and empty before him, torchlight flickering against the marble. The shadows felt thicker than before, clinging to the edges of the corridors, pooling at the base of the golden throne.

He stood before it, before the withering figure of the man he had served his entire life. Aurelian IX did not move, did not breathe, yet the presence remained. Calvus could feel it pressing against his mind, curling around his thoughts like smoke.

“You saw her.” The voice rasped through the chamber.

Calvus swallowed. “She knows something is wrong.”

Aurelian’s head did not tilt, his skeletal frame did not shift, but the air grew heavy with his presence. “Then she is a threat.”

Calvus hesitated. The Emperor’s words had always been decisive, but there was something else there now. Something colder. “She is a faithful servant of the empire.”

“She must be silenced.”

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The Emperor had never spoken so bluntly, had never given an order like this before. Something deeper than unease stirred within Calvus.

He had spent his life serving Aurelian IX. Had devoted everything to his rule, his vision. But the thing upon the throne was not the man he had known.

Something else was speaking now.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Born to Be Royal

By HybridDH

Born to be royal, a soul set to gleam,

A child of wonder, a living dream.

Cloaked in moon’s silver, stars’ gentle embrace,

A lineage of greatness, a timeless grace.

In your veins flows a regal stream,

The blood of monarchs, their steadfast dream.

A fire within, both fierce and true,

A legacy waiting, alive in you.

Born to be royal, with a crown untamed,

Bearer of brilliance, destiny named.

The world lies open, its canvas vast,

Awaken your magic, let shadows be cast.

With every stride, leave trails of light,

A path of beauty in the endless night.

For kingdoms whisper, their voices call,

To a sovereign destined to rise above all.

Rule with compassion, wisdom, and might,

A beacon of hope in the darkened fight.

In your essence dwells a radiant glow,

A symphony of hues the world must know.

Born to be royal, a masterpiece rare,

A destiny forged in celestial care.

Take your throne, where dreams ignite,

And let your reign bring endless light.

[hybriddhthepoet]

The Emperor’s Rest

Chapter 1

The Emperor did not scream when the poison took him.

Aurelian IX, the Sun Emperor of Kael’Zir, sat upon his golden throne, his robes untouched by the blood pooling beneath his skin. He had not collapsed, had not convulsed as lesser men might. He merely exhaled a slow, measured breath and closed his eyes. The court did not know of his death until dawn. The night had been silent.

And yet, even in death, he remained.

Lord Regent Calvus Varro stood before the dais, eyes fixed upon the still figure of his Emperor. The golden laurels still rested upon Aurelian’s brow, the silken drape of his imperial robes unmarred by decay. But the flesh beneath had begun to wither. The scent of myrrh and dried rose petals, once meant to honor his majesty, could no longer mask the stench of something wrong.

But it was not the stench that unsettled Calvus.

It was the voice.

“Summon the Council, Calvus. We must address the rebellion in the west.”

The voice did not echo in the chamber, nor did it reach the ears of the guards standing at attention. It whispered directly into Calvus’ mind, coiling around his thoughts like a tightening noose. He bowed low, hands clasped behind his back. “As you command, my Emperor.”

Aurelian IX did not move. His lips did not part, nor did his breath stir the air. And yet, Calvus felt the weight of his unseen gaze.

The Imperial Court convened beneath the stained-glass domes of the Auric Hall, where pillars of polished obsidian lined the chamber like silent sentinels. The noble houses had gathered in their resplendent silks and gilded armor, faces carefully arranged in masks of mourning and ambition. Calvus took his place upon the dais, where the Emperor’s throne loomed behind him. He felt the weight of the golden chair pressing upon his back, though he dared not turn to see the figure seated within.

“The Sun Emperor—may his radiance guide us—has passed into the embrace of the gods,” Calvus declared. “But the empire endures. As his Regent, I will ensure that Kael’Zir remains unbroken.”

The nobles did not weep. They did not clutch their hearts in grief. Instead, they exchanged glances, measuring opportunities. “And yet,” spoke Lord Quintus Rellian, head of the House of Ash, “we have heard no proclamation of succession. Who shall wear the crown?”

Silence stretched across the chamber, thick as smoke. It was an impossible question. There was no heir. Aurelian IX had never married, never named a successor. And now, the throne sat empty—or so they believed.

Calvus lifted his chin. “The Sun Emperor ruled with wisdom, and he left me as his voice. Until a successor is determined, the will of the empire shall pass through my hand.”

Lord Rellian inclined his head, but his gaze gleamed with knowing. “Then may the gods guide your wisdom, Lord Regent. We shall watch with great interest.”

Calvus returned to the imperial chambers beneath the weight of a dozen unsaid words. He dismissed the attendants, the scribes, the guards. Only silence remained.

And the Emperor.

“They doubt you,” the voice rasped.

Calvus turned to face the throne. The figure upon it had not moved, had not breathed. The flesh beneath the laurels had darkened further, the skin at his throat sinking inward. The rot had begun.

“They are vultures, my Emperor. They waited for your death before your body was cold.”

Aurelian’s voice was sharp. “Then let them wait. We have greater matters to attend. The poisoner still walks free.”

Calvus’ fingers curled into his palm. He had spent the hours after Aurelian’s collapse searching, interrogating, tearing through the palace like a man possessed. And yet, the assassin had vanished into the shadows. “The court is filled with vipers,” Calvus murmured. “Any one of them could have placed the chalice in your hands. I need time.”

“Then take it,” the Emperor said. “But be warned, Calvus. Time is not on our side.”

The whisper slithered into his mind, a creeping, growing thing. “I grow hungry.”

Beyond the palace walls, the empire teetered on the edge of ruin. In the west, the banners of the rebellious Prince Galen rose high, his armies swelling with deserters and dissidents. In the north, the Holy Order of the Veil murmured of omens, of a darkness festering within the imperial capital. And in the streets of the capital itself, the people whispered. They whispered of an Emperor who had died without an heir. They whispered of an empty throne. And they whispered of shadows that moved within the palace, unseen and hungry.

Calvus stood at the window of his chambers, gazing out upon the sprawl of Kael’Zir. The city gleamed beneath the light of the twin moons, its domes and spires untouched by the rot festering behind palace doors. “How long will you linger, my Emperor?” he whispered to the night.

No answer came.

Only the silence.

And the cold, creeping knowledge that he was no longer alone.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Thunder Calls!!

By HybridDH

Under a sky of bruised iron and slate,

Where thunder growls with a voice of fate,

The storm unfurls, fierce and wide,

With raw, unchained power none can hide.

Lightning scars the heavens’ chest,

A jagged wound, alive, unrest;

It cleaves the dark with blinding might,

Splitting day from dead of night.

Rain falls hard, like shattered glass,

A torrent wild, relentless, vast—

Each drop a pulse, each wave a cry,

Of skies that grieve, of clouds that sigh.

Boom, boom, boom—the tempest calls,

A force that climbs, that crashes, that falls,

An orchestra of nature’s ire,

A symphony of fierce desire.

You stand beneath, a trembling leaf,

In awe of beauty, struck by grief—

For here you see how frail you are,

A flickering light, a fleeting star.

The wind—a whip, a jagged edge,

It pulls you back from reason’s ledge;

It flings you far, then drags you near,

A beast untamed, a whispered fear.

No hand can halt, no voice can tame

This primal dance, this fearsome game.

For here the world’s own heartbeats pound,

With echoes deep and vast, unbound.

And when you think you’ve touched the peak,

A thunderbolt—swift, sharp, and sleek—

Strikes down with force to bend your pride,

To cast you low, to turn the tide.

The rain, relentless, sweeps the land,

A cleansing touch, a fierce command,

To wash away, to carve anew,

The hidden scars the heart once knew.

You cannot fight the storm’s decree,

Its wild grace, its agony.

It takes, it gives, it spares no thing—

A reckless king, a ruthless king.

So you surrender, breath by breath,

To nature’s wrath, to nature’s depth,

For there’s a strange, fierce peace inside,

In bowing to the raging tide.

And when it passes, spent and gone,

The world seems softer, fresh as dawn.

Yet deep within, you feel its weight—

The thunder, boom, that storms create.

A wild reminder, sharp and clear,

That you are small, that you are near

To forces vast that shape the earth,

To nature’s storm, her rage, her birth.

And though you’re tossed, though you’re cast down,

You rise anew, though tempest-worn—

A soul reshaped by storm’s fierce grace,

Alive, and humbled by her embrace.

[hybriddhthepoet]

What Dost it Take?

By HybridDH

What dost it take to leave thy shadowed keep,

That chamber dark where thou dost ever sleep?

A prison wrought of thine own hand and will,

Where silence reigns, and time itself stands still.

Would it demand the heavens rent in twain,

The earth to quake, the sky to pour its rain?

Wouldst thou but rise if all thou lov’st should die,

And whisper words unspoken ere they fly?

Nay, thou dost linger, bound by chains unseen,

A web thou weav’st of guilt and might-have-been.

The mirror showeth none but thy disdain,

Yet thou dost cast thy woes on others’ name.

What burden doth thy heart so tightly clasp,

That thou canst ne’er another’s mercy grasp?

They came with light, to guide thee from this plight,

Yet found their arms not strong enough for flight.

What shame it is to see thee shrink and hide,

When hands have reached to pull thee from inside.

Dost thou not see? Their care is weary worn,

Their hope, though steadfast, fray’d and faintly torn.

For men can only mend what men do share,

But none can save the soul that will not dare.

Oh coward heart, dost thou not hear the call?

To rise, to fight, to claim thyself from thrall?

The world dost wait, though patience soon may wane,

And pity turn to naught but cold disdain.

No love can thrive when walls do hem it in,

No trust endure when blame beget’th sin.

So take the step, the first of many more,

Unbar the gate and seek the open door.

For those who cherish thee may soon depart,

And leave thee cloistered, locked within thine heart.

What dost it take? Pray, ask thyself this night,

Ere darkness swallows all thy chance for light.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Red Fire, Black Smoke

Red dress, pink lips, a smirk so sly,

Hip swing left, hip swing right—don’t pass me by.

A step so smooth, a glance so keen,

That’s the walk I’d watch, lost in a dream.

Red hair burns like fire untamed,

Black smoke lingers, calling my name.

Her gaze ignites, my thoughts collide,

A wildfire raging deep inside.

She moves like music, slow and sweet,

A melody traced in every beat.

The world stands still when she’s in view,

Like time itself bows down to you.

A whisper soft, a laugh so low,

Like secrets only the devil would know.

She paints the night with every stride,

A flame too fierce, too bright to hide.

I should look away, break the trance,

But every moment feels like chance.

One more step, one more sigh,

One more moment before goodbye.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Sir Whiskers

By HybidDH

Art by ghosty_entity https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

Sir Franklin Whiskers was a cat most refined,

With a coat so pristine, meticulously lined.

A monocle perched on his dignified face,

And a little silk bow—always tied, just in case.

He’d take his tea at precisely four,

Sitting upright, with one polished paw.

And heaven forbid if his saucer was chipped,

For his tail would twitch, and his whiskers, quite miffed.

Sir Franklin believed all mice were gauche,

Far too unrefined, undeniably proche.

He’d chase one on Tuesdays, but only in jest—

“You can’t seriously think I’d dirty my vest?”

Once, he heard Rover, that mutt from next door,

Scratching and howling—a true eyesore!

Sir Franklin just sighed, with a delicate yawn,

“Oh, the rabble that dare step on my lawn.”

On Sundays, he’d stroll through the garden, you see,

In a top hat he’d borrowed from Lord McBee.

And if anyone dared snicker, he’d toss them a glare—

For Sir Franklin had dignity, style, and flair.

So here’s to the gentlest, poshest of cats,

With silk in his stride and a disdain for rats.

For all who have seen him must say with delight,

“That Sir Franklin’s got more manners than most I’ve met tonight!”

[hybriddhthepoet]

Mind Games

Hey, stop and wait a minute,

Watch the world spin—I’m not in it.

Let them dance, let them play,

But I won’t join, I’ll walk away.

You twist your words, you spin your lies,

Tie them up in a neat disguise.

They sting, they burn, they cut so deep,

Yet still, I smile—I never weep.

The things you say, they pull, they twist,

A heavy weight, a tightening fist.

But at the end of every fight,

It’s just my thoughts, lost in the night.

I try to break, I try to bend,

Try to find where the puzzle ends.

But every turn, it’s just the same,

Caught inside your wicked game.

I know it’s fine, I know it’s fair,

To feel like I am lost in air.

Yet still, I wonder, still, I try,

Why I let you haunt my mind.

You watch me pause, you see me shake,

Like glass about to bend and break.

But I won’t shatter, not today,

I’ll brush the dust, I’ll walk away.

So spin your tricks, enjoy the show,

But I see through the undertow.

And though you try to stake your claim,

I’ll never bow—I’m not your game.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Chronicles of Sacrifice

By HybridDH

In the murk of our darkest hours, we clash,

Not by choice, but by a script the world has penned.

Simple men, thrust into a fray, a brash

Collision not of desire but of roles we’re meant to mend.

We fight to the breath of death, not for glory or will,

But because the whims of others dictate so.

Yet, in every fleeting pause, silent and still,

We yearn for peace, for a chance to let the battleground go.

We scrape, we crawl, through the mud and fear,

Grasping at any shred of tranquility we find.

Though war is often the answer handed down, it’s clear

It’s neither a want nor need, but a bind.

How dark must it be, where humanity fades,

To a mere canvas of blood, flesh, and tears?

We are not defined by the scars from blade’s

Invasions, nor by the hardened calluses of our fears.

When a glimmer of peace emerges, fragile and slight,

We seize it, embrace it, halt the relentless fight.

Humanity restored, in each other’s sight,

The beasts of battle subdued by a greater light.

Yet until that moment of gentle reprieve,

We view each other through a hunter’s eyes.

Is this the way we must live and grieve?

Or can we find a truth beyond the battle’s cries?

In a world so quick to draw the sword,

How do we teach the hands to hold instead?

To know each other not by the cord

Of war, but by the peace in which we tread.

So we ask, amid the echoes of the fray,

Is it truly okay, this game we’re taught to play?

Or is there a better path, a gentler way,

Where the call of peace is not so far away?

[hybriddhthepoet]

The Language of Flowers

A tulip blooms in crimson bright,

It whispers love in morning light.

A kiss so soft, a heart so true,

In red and pink, it speaks for you.

A daisy laughs in fields so wide,

A bloom of joy, no need to hide.

With petals pure and sunshine sweet,

It sings of hope beneath your feet.

The violet shy in shaded glen,

Speaks kindly of remembered friends.

A token small, yet held so dear,

A love that lasts through every year.

The marigold in fiery glow,

Brings sorrow’s touch and loss we know.

Its petals burn like setting sun,

A love once bright, now come undone.

A lily, dressed in robes of white,

Brings peace and grace, so soft, so light.

It stands for those we’ve loved and lost,

A symbol pure, untouched by frost.

The orchid, rare in purple bloom,

Speaks of beauty, fills the room.

Refined, unique, a love so bold,

A story rich in petals told.

A poppy sways in crimson red,

A silent hymn for those long dead.

It honours heroes, lost in fight,

Yet glows with dreams in morning light.

A peony, with layers grand,

Brings luck and wealth to heart and hand.

A wedding wish, a promise bright,

A future bathed in golden light.

The bluebell hums a gentle tune,

Of kindness underneath the moon.

A faithful heart, a bond so tight,

A vow to stand through darkest night.

So let the flowers softly speak,

In bloom, in scent, in colours deep.

For every heart, for every tear,

A flower waits to keep it near.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Chill of Solitude

By HybridDH

In the blaze of summer’s kiss, under skies so blue,

Where laughter floated in the warmth, and soft breezes blew,

I wandered wrapped in sweaters, cold in flesh and thought,

Amidst the joyful throng in shorts, a chill that couldn’t be fought.

They approached with smiles like sunlight, radiant and clear,

But I stood a frosty statue, grimacing ear to ear.

A pitiful smirk, a mumbled word, “Go on, I’ll stay behind,”

As slowly, one by one, they left me there to find.

As years unfurled like autumn leaves, the truth began to dawn,

It wasn’t just the cold in me that made them all withdrawn.

Reflecting on the icy barrier I’d built around my soul,

I realized it wasn’t chills, but bitterness that took its toll.

I labeled warmth around me as a trait I could not share,

Labeling their retreat as just, unfair.

But as the seasons of my life shifted, rearranged,

I saw in stark relief how I, not they, had been estranged.

It wasn’t the briskness in the air or the clothing that I wore,

But the frost in my responses, the blizzard at my core.

What I mistook for rejection, a simple, natural flow,

Was just a mirror of the coldness I was loath to let go.

Now, older, maybe wiser, with many winters passed,

I’ve learned that warmth comes from within, and it’s meant to last.

To melt the ice within my heart, to finally see,

That the warmth I sought was stifled by no one else but me.

So if you find yourself feeling cold, while others bask in light,

Perhaps it’s not the season, but a personal plight.

Look within and ask if you’ve pushed the warmth away,

For we are the architects of how bright we make our day.

Or maybe, just maybe, I was just an asshole all along.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Amor Sin Fronteras 💖

By HybridDH

In the quiet hum of dawn’s embrace,

Bajo un cielo que canta promesas de amor,

I find my heart in your sweet trace,

Eres mi luz, mi eterno fulgor.

Your laughter dances on the tide,

Como el susurro del viento en la piel,

A song that pulls my soul inside,

Notas de un sueño, un lazo fiel.

Through every hour, near or far,

Cada latido nos une aún más,

No space can dim this guiding star,

Ni el tiempo borra lo que es veraz.

No walls, no miles, can break this thread,

Eres mi alma, mi paz, mi sol,

The fire still burns, forever fed,

Arde en mis venas tu dulce calor.

Each whispered word, each silent vow,

En cada sombra te puedo sentir,

Your touch is here, it lingers now,

Tu amor es brisa que invita a vivir.

Wherever fate may lead us on,

Nada detiene lo que es verdad,

With you, my fears are dead and gone,

Eres mi ancla, mi eternidad.

Your love’s a map, a path so clear,

Eres el rumbo que siempre escogí,

Through every loss, through every year,

Siempre a tu lado, sin fin, sin fin.

So here I stand, with hands held high,

Mis brazos tiemblan por tanto anhelar,

No storm can shake what won’t deny,

Dos almas juntas, un solo hogar.

And if the stars should lose their light,

Aunque las sombras nos quieran vencer,

I’d still be yours beyond the night,

Mi amor te encuentra, sin retroceder.

This love, our love, knows no release,

Somos promesas que rompen el cielo,

Bound by a fire that will not cease,

Siempre un latido, un solo anhelo.

In both our hearts, it’s clear and true,

En ambos corazones, es claro y verdadero,

This love in English, and in Spanish too.

Este amor en inglés, y en Español también, sincero.

[hybriddhthepoet]

I Want to Go Home

By HybridDH

I want to go home, I need to go home,

To the echo of walls where I once roamed.

I’m tired, so tired, can’t you see?

My soul is weary, yearning to be free.

I want to go home, where laughter once filled the air,

Where safety and warmth were never rare.

I want to go home, where I felt unbreakable, strong,

Now I’m lost, wondering where I belong.

Each day drags, a relentless weight,

I’m suffocating under the strain I hate.

I want to go home, to that familiar place,

Now just a void, an empty space.

Where is home, when the foundations are dust?

When trust is shattered, when homes are just rust?

Destroyed, erased, my refuge is gone,

Where do I go when I can’t carry on?

I want to go home, but it’s lost, it’s unclear,

Every moment without it, consumed by fear.

The walls that cradled my dreams are down,

Leaving me in this relentless town.

How can I find home, where can I rest,

When the heart of my world has been repossessed?

I want to go home, I scream into the night,

Searching for a glimpse, a sliver of light.

Desperation claws, I’m unravelling fast,

Yearning for a link to a vanished past.

I want to go home, let me find my way,

Through the wreckage of where I used to play.

I want to go home, I’m lost without its grace,

The memories haunt me, a relentless chase.

I can’t escape this longing, this need so dire,

For a home that’s consumed by an unseen fire.

My plea is simple, my need is clear,

I want to go home, I want to be near

To the echoes of laughter, the shadows of play,

In a home that has crumbled, faded away.

I want to go home, where is that peace?

Where the torment of longing can finally cease.

Where is the solace for a soul so worn?

Where is the haven where my heart was born?

I want to go home, I’m breaking, I bend,

With each breath, I’m closer to an untimely end.

Can’t you hear my cries, can’t you see my pain?

I want to go home, feel whole again.

Desperate, I wander, an exile of fate,

In the ruins of memories, it’s too late.

I want to go home, it’s my relentless plea,

In a world that no longer holds a key.

I want to go home, I want to go home,

Let me find that place where I’m not alone.

I want to go home, I want to go home,

To reclaim the peace from which I’ve roamed.

[hybriddhthepoet]

When the Raven Calls

By HybridDH Art by ghosty_entity https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

As dusk drapes the world in shades of grey,

A lone raven perches, ending its day.

From its throat, a mournful croak begins to swell,

A solitary serenade, a resonant farewell.

This call, deep and hauntingly drawn,

Carries over the fields at the edge of dawn.

Richer than the crow’s harsh caw,

It weaves through the woods, an audible thaw.

The sound travels far, a poignant echo,

Reaching out to the emptiness we know.

A cry that cuts through the crisp night air,

Seeking others, its despair to share.

When shadows stir and threats draw near,

Its voice sharpens into a spear of fear.

A chilling alarm that pierces the night,

Warning all of the impending plight.

Yet, amid the calls of warning and dread,

Lies a deeper note of a thread that’s shed.

It’s not just a signal, not merely a sound,

But a lament for a connection no longer found.

The raven’s song grows increasingly insistent,

Its rhythmic knocking, urgent, persistent.

Twelve strikes like a heart’s desperate plea,

Echoing out, “Return to me.”

In its solitude, it mimics life’s choir,

A mimicry born of unquenched desire.

Raised among humans, words it may mimic,

Yet its own voice is more raw, more cynic.

So listen to the raven when it cries,

Understand the sorrow that inside it lies.

For each note that falls from its darkened beak,

Speaks of solitude and the comfort it seeks.

Long into the night, it calls and yearns,

For the fellowship for which its spirit burns.

Yet morning finds it alone yet again,

Perched in silence, embracing the pain.

[hybriddhthepoet]

Death Hunts the Living

By HybridDH Art by ghosty_entity https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

Death hunts only the living, so why the fear in your eyes?

Look in the mirror, what do you see, what’s your guise?

No need for worry, no need for the dread,

If the thought of dying fills you with unspeakable dread,

Then embrace it quickly, let it lead you to bed.

Death seeks the breathing, so if you’re scared to depart,

Then maybe it’s time to finish what you couldn’t start.

Life’s not so tangled, not so complex to unwind,

Sometimes the simplest answers are the hardest to find.

You fear the reaper? Then step ahead, take the lead,

If you die without knowing, does that fulfill the need?

Is fear still valid, if you cease to be?

A riddle wrapped in mortality, so tough to see.

We complicate life with fears, with existential throes,

But the simplest solutions, right under our nose,

Are often obscured, by our own verbose.

Death comes for us all, the ultimate close.

So why overthink? Why drown in fright?

If death is inevitable, might as well invite.

The fear of dying? Just let it go,

Step into the unknown, let the winds blow.

Death only comes for the living, that’s the game,

So face it head-on, extinguish the flame.

Why worry about what’s certain to come?

Embrace the end, when it’s all said and done.

Yet, death is not just an end, but a chance to transcend,

A simple solution, not just a trend.

So live with the courage, live with the fire,

Live knowing death is not just to expire.

So challenge the simple, question the norm,

In the dance with death, let transformation form.

And when you’re scared to die, remember this lore,

Death can’t scare you, once you’re no more.