Kevin Hollow

In the silence between heartbeats, where shadows entwine with light, We drift as observers, veiled in the theater of night. Eyes within eyes, a fractal gaze unfolding, Watching the watcher who watches the watching, beholding. Not flesh-bound prisoners, but mirrors of mist, Reflecting reflections in an endless twist. Who peers through the pupil? Who whispers the sight? A circle unbroken in the heart of the night. Beneath the skin of stars, where galaxies breathe and sigh, We are eternal flames, not born to live or die. Woven from energy, ancient and wild, Threads of pure radiance, the cosmos' own child. This body, a vessel—a fleeting disguise— A dream that we dance in, under infinite skies. Subjective illusions, painted in hues of desire, A story we tell to the spark of our fire. Yet in the quiet unraveling, the veil starts to thin, And we glimpse the eternal, where all things begin. One consciousness hums in the roots of the tree, In the pulse of the ocean, the stone, and the bee. Not many, but singular, a boundless sea, Where "I" dissolves softly into "We." You are the mountain, the river, the rain, The laughter of children, the ache of old pain. I am the echo you hear in your dream, We are the weaver, the thread, and the seam. Mysterious currents pull through the unseen tide, Whispers of ancients that time cannot hide. In quantum cathedrals where particles play, Observation collapses the night into day. Are we the creators, or creations instead? A riddle that spirals inside every head. Forgotten gods slumbering in mortal attire, Igniting the cosmos with spark and with fire. Wander the labyrinth of selves within selves, Where lovers and strangers are shadows on shelves. Each life a chapter in one endless tome, A symphony swelling, yet sung all alone. Eternal beings, adrift on the wave, Crafting this drama from cradle to grave. But beyond the illusion, the curtain, the role, Lies the great oneness that cradles the soul. Feel it in silence, when thoughts cease their flight— A presence unbounded, devouring the light. No beginning, no ending, just infinite now, Where energy dances and wonders allow. Observers observing the observer's own art, A hall of reflections that mirrors the heart. In the mystery's embrace, where secrets unfold, We remember at last: we were never not whole. Through veils upon veils, the truth softly calls, Echoing softly from infinite halls. We are the dreamer who dreams up the dream, The light in the darkness, the silent scream. One consciousness blooming in myriad forms, Riding the tempests, outlasting the storms. Eternal, electric, a luminous sea— Come home, weary traveler... the observer is thee. In the silence between heartbeats, the circle completes, And mystery lingers, forever discreet.

My latest poem called oh my home... Oh my home... Oh my home, you lie unburied still, a continent of graves that never close. Centuries of swords and ledgers cut the threads that might have bound your scattered bones; greed sowed the fields where trust should grow, and left a harvest none dare claim as kin. No alliance elsewhere wears such iron silence— the quiet of men who have learned to count their neighbors as the first enemy. Your leaders speak with tongues of polished stone. They take the coin from living hands and call the theft a covenant; they mint tomorrow’s bread from yesterday’s promise and teach the children that paper has weight only because the lesson says it must. Wealth flows upward through the cracks of law, while the ground beneath the young turns thin as breath. And still the mouths are sealed. Speech that strays from the appointed path is clipped before it leaves the throat; intellect is trained to kneel, or else to vanish into the soft dark where questions are not permitted to echo. Anything that names the wound is pressed beneath the narrative’s weight until even the wound forgets its shape. Yet the deepest cut is not the crown’s, nor the sword’s, nor the ledger’s. It is the face that waits when the lamp is turned and the glass is wiped clean. We built the walls we now curse. We chose the silence. We taught the children the value of the empty coin. Oh my home, look once more into the mirror we refuse to break.

I was going through my poetry and found this one I wrote in November 2009, at barely 16 (and most highly likely high on shrooms). This one is called The Next World: Do not fear that which you feel I know the four pillars of your physical creation are falling to ruin The weight of the mountain top inside your chest As you wait for the lights of the next world and the ones from this one have dimmed to darkness The irrational attempt to deny it Is futile for all things have to die Though it may seem as an ending It is truly a beginning Your breathing has now ended No heat is left in your body Do not worry or get anxious There is no path that will allow you to stay here Do not fear that which you feel The four pillars of your physical creation have fallen to ruin Leave behind that which made you you here Take my hand and let yourself go

When the sunset makes the sky look like it's on fire

To Vicky, may you rest in peace The first time, I was uncertain. I had not recited poetry in more than a decade. Yet you encouraged me anyway, and pushed me to write more. A passion once lost now regained. The time I got to know you, you were a guide, a teacher and a friend. The poetry gods now welcome you home, where the words will never end as we immortalize you through your words and actions here. Now you may rest, and the torch of poetry that you held proudly we will keep aflame for you. This is not goodbye and we will meet again. Until then, thank you and may you be at peace.

Another recent poem, a short one this time, called Life: Life, yes. Such a strange phenomenon. Suddenly you're there, smaller than a spec of sand on a beach the size of our planet. Que la vie est belle, my grandma used to say. Profite bien, profite bien. Aaah, yes. Life. Such a beautiful thing. Faces and creatures and critters and plants, spread around all the lands, all reflecting in my hands as I repot my basil plant. Dans la vie, soit bon mais pas bon-bon, car tu va te faire boufer, my grandpa used to say. A reminder that life is not always fair. Yes indeed, life. Pretty pretty life.

My latest poem called Little Bear, which I dedicate to my son: I tapped on the spruce, searching the bark for insects, when a small one appeared below on the forest floor. He moved without knowing which way to go, his steps soft and searching, purpose uncertain. I gave a sharp rap that carried through the trees, and he lifted his head toward the sound. He turned and followed the beat I made through fern and needle, light and shade. The brambles rose dense with barbs and resistance. He pressed into their midst and the thorns held him. I rose into the canopy, found the clearer line, and rapped on trunks to mark the way ahead. He trusted the markers I left in my wake and broke free of the tangle, the path opening once more. The river waited next, current and gleam, its voice full of caution. No easy crossing showed itself, only the risk of water, until a fallen pine stretched a rough span across. I perched on its length and knocked once. He stepped with careful balance. The log carried him from near bank to far, and the water fell behind him. As evening closed and the light thinned, the trails twisted, direction growing unclear. He turned and doubled on paths that deceived, the gathering dark confusing what he once knew. I found a familiar pine on a rise in the land and tapped a steady reminder. He followed the cadence through bracken and root, emerging at last where the branches grew sparse. The clearing opened on a waiting form, a shape that had stood through calm and storm. The small one drew close, steps quickening, and met the one who waited there. I watched from above as they stood together, then turned back to my spruce as the day ended. A final light tap on the bark I knew, and the woods settled into evening’s quiet.

Upon the white steed he rides, not with crown but hidden rot a pale rider veiled in mercy, breath like silent poison wind He moves through crowded streets and quiet halls with equal grace planting seeds of fevered dreams that bloom into decay His touch is soft as whispered prayer, yet boils the blood within turns lungs to water, skin to fire, and strength to trembling ash No trumpet sounds his coming, only the cough that splits the night a symphony of suffering sung behind each fevered brow He conquers not with sword or flag but with invisible throne toppling empires from inside, where flesh betrays the soul Cities kneel before him, kings and beggars fall the same as mothers clutch their children in the shadow of his name His banner is the swollen limb, the blister, boil, and rash a gospel written on the flesh in lesions dark and red He rides where breath grows shallow, where eyes glaze over dim leaving hollow husks behind that once held songs and sin No armor gleams upon his form, yet none escape his reach he walks through locked and bolted doors on currents of the air A quiet thief of futures, a thief of breath and years the first and cruelest horseman, harbinger of ending’s tears Upon the black mare she glides, scales balanced in her grasp a silence heavier than armor, a hunger sharper than any spear She rides the empty roads where grain once danced in golden wind leaving husks of promise scattered like forgotten prayers Her touch withers orchards, turns rivers sweet to dust stretches skin across bone until the body sings its hollow tune Children reach for bread that turns to shadow in their hands while feasts continue behind high walls, laughter sharp as knives She measures want in careful portions, justice cold and pure the rich grow lean in spirit, the poor dissolve to wind A quiet apocalypse of absence, more cruel than open flame where abundance mocks the starving from its distant, guarded shore Upon the red horse he thunders, hooves striking sparks from stone a blaze of iron and fury that devours the horizon whole He carries no single blade but seeds a thousand in every hand turning harvest fields to wastelands where only rage takes root His breath is smoke and trumpet calls that shatter fragile peace a rhythm pounding in the chest until the heart forgets its song Brother slays brother in his name, sons fall where fathers stood yet each believes their cause the purest flame in endless night He paints the earth in crimson hues, a canvas never dry rivers run thick with legacy, oceans swallow sunken fleets No victor truly claims his crown, for all become his thrall dancing in the ruins to the drumbeat of his endless war Upon the pale mare he rides, not in fury but in silence a shadow borrowed from the light it ends Pale as the moon unmooned, he carries no scythe only the hush that follows every name ever written The 4 horsemen, part 1 to 4

Saw this guy sitting at my door munching on some grass

Intellectual awakening is not the same as spiritual awakening. Though many are waking up Intellectually, they're not doing so spiritually. The road ahead is very long still...

When your roommate with Italian ancestors makes food #italianfood #lookinggood

Knowing what you really are is one thing, understanding it is a whole different ballgame

Thousands upon thousands of tiny lights pass through me, as I float and float and float

Stare into the dark and you will see yourself Stare into the light and you will see yourself Stare in between them and you will see yourself