THE WARMTH OF CLASS

 

From the sea of cool blue gray she rises,

   In a quiet space where grace resides,

   A canvas capturing time’s surprises

   Where a gentle knowing spirit hides.

 

Her elegant features etched in paint,

   Total class in every brush flow,

A portrait far from faint,

   A face that all who look must know.

 

And then those green eyes, soft and deep,

Where the warmth of heart begins to glow,

   A silent promise she will keep

   More than any mirror will show!

 

This beauty, captured and distilled,

A moment painted, still and refined,

   Is elegance with purpose fulfilled,

Leaving an impression, clear and kind.

 

Thomas Theophilus© October 2, 2026

CRIES OF DARKNESS

 

The fog rises off the mirror of the lagoon,

a slow breath drawn across quiet waters.

The darkness moves without sound,

stretching its shadows from shore to shore.

In the silence, the heart keeps its own counsel,

bound to what it has always needed,

untouched by what remains hidden,

blinded to what waits within the deep.

We look out into the gray hush,

reaching for shapes that refuse to form,

learning to stand at the water’s edge

and trust the unwritten path ahead.

Yet the darkness cares less about what lies within,

and, beneath the stillness, the spirit cries out!

 

Thomas Theophilus© October 2, 2026

THE VOICES WE LEAVE BEHIND

The room is full, yet silent as a grave,

A dozen faces bathed in cool, blue light.

No spoken words to catch, no hands to wave,

Just quiet thumbs that scroll into the night.

We traded glances for a glass display,

And traded voices for a typed line—

Forgetting how a simple word can weigh,

Or how an eye can meet with yours, and shine.

Remember when a conversation breathed?

When laughter had a rhythm, warm and loud?

Before our presence was so softly sheathed,

And solitude grew crowded in a crowd!

They call it connection, fast and clear,

Yet no one speaks, and no one stays to hear.

 

Thomas Theophilus© September 28, 2026

SWALLOWS OF POISON

 

In the quiet room where the ego sits,

Pride counts the cuts and collects the splinters,

Feeding the hearth with frozen bits

Of a summer burned into endless winters.

We build high forts out of fragile clay,

Call it dignity, call it standing tall,

Trading the warmth of a clear today

For the cold relief of a stone – lined wall.

For trust is a glass that we hold too loose,

And common sense is a quiet friend

Left outside while we choose the noose

Of the crazy games that we won’t unbend.

A man will trade a garden whole

Just to prove he was right about the fence,

Carving a trench through his own small soul

In a grand display of no common sense.

He swallows the poison, expects the foe

To fall from the bitterness in his throat,

Wears his unforgiveness like a heavy coat

In the middle of July, refusing to let go!

The ego whispers, "Remember the slight,"

While wisdom sighs at the empty cost:

To win every stupid, burning fight,

And realize later how much was lost.

 

Thomas Theophilus© September 26, 2026

SCRAPS OF MY SOUL

 

Dedicated to all who feel unseen by a world in a hurry,

yet remain cherished in the quiet presence of God.

 

“Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not

when my strength faileth.” — Psalm 71:9

 

They set me on the curb at dusk,

a chipped frame, a rusted key,

Deciding rust is all I am,

forgetting I was once the tree.

Out of sight and out of mind,

The busy street rolls quickly by.

To call me useless suits them well –

a folded page, a breathless reply.

No factory needs my hands today,

No ledger counts the hours I give.

They measure worth in what is made,

and overlook the way I live.

Yet loneliness is not the end,

though silence sits beside my chair.

I sit beneath a large clock

and breathe the quiet, waiting air.

Let world-bound eyes see empty space,

a piece of trash left in the cold;

But I am not trash to Him who knows

how pure gold looks when it grows old.

No longer driven, no longer rushed,

Now I rest my spirit in His grace.

Unproductive to the street,

but cherished in a higher place.

 

Thomas Theophilus© September 25, 2026

PETRICHOR

 

The Loudest Kind of Quiet

Rain in an Empty vessel

The Scent of Standing Alone

Alone in the Open

Memories & Truth

What Rain Washes Up

Honeysuckle and Hollows

Where the Storm Left Me

Noticeably Absent

The Air After You Left

Only the Dirt Listens

A Solitary Downpour

The Scent of Missing You

Love in the Downpour

Honeysuckle and Soft Goodbyes

What We Kept in the Wet Dirt

The Half Life of Loving You

Rain-Soaked Longing

Where Love Stormed Through

The Rain Can't Wash Away Ache

Drenched in You . . .

The Distance Between Drops

After my Heart Breaks

I am Still Wet with You!

 

Thomas Theophilus© September 24, 2026

THE GUARD IS CHANGING

 

A shift in the wind, a tear in the veil,

The heavy-handed kings grow frail.

The gold they hoarded, thick with rust,

Is turning back to barren dust.

For too long, shadows ruled the throne,

And claimed the earth as theirs alone.

They built their towers high and steep,

While promising the tired sleep.

But justice has a quiet tread,

A steady spark where hope was dead.

The keys are falling from their hands,

A quiet storm across the lands.

The guard is changing in the light—

The reign is taken from the night.

The crown stripped bare of greed and lies,

Now placed beneath untainted skies.

What once was stolen is returned,

From ash and fire, lessons learned.

The meek inherited what was lost,

No longer paying others' cost.

The righteous step into space,

With open hands and grounded grace.

The night yields slowly, but yield it must:

Kingdoms will soon lie in forgotten dust.

 

Thomas Theophilus© September 23, 2026