The Strangers Archives

The poet

April 25th, 2026

in darkness, shadows turn to peace,

and solitude transposes silence

to move against a stubborn will to cease,

into a line of moments stealthily building in defiance

to worldly laws of passage into expectation, still not cast

to abstract shapes of words that rush to hide from you,

so only the unmeasured distance can unfold its secrets vast,

within a presence so assertive it expands there in full view,

though still, one point at a time, building that verse only to draw it back,

when pen tips hide the freshness of your dust-hued paper surface

that will persist to keep the blanks between those written truths in black,

as always, first exposed to darkness, an unmistakable, relentless purpose

to capture hushed shadows and their transient emergence.

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(inspired by the sounds of ‘In the androgynous dark’, by Brambles)

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The master

February 6th, 2026

set on a path alone among the pine-defined horizons,

you walk into the nowhere hazed above

by eyes that pierce through undefined palettes of greysomes,

which northern winds keep brightening up

for one more truth to grasp with the unsettling winter dusk

that follows you to catch a thought surrender

to the limitless field of feeling under moving stars,

defined by being and not being just as much

as light on days and nights when you outpaced those without courage

but just the honesty of childlike wonder set ablaze

to question the eternity of future flowing backwards into hope

that hurt much more than pain you used to dwell on endlessly

at the bottom of the mountain, where the trees surrendered to the breeze

that once slipped through the shoreline of your chanting,

atuned to breath, in tune with stillness, in search of silence

or truth, notwithstanding the sought peace.

(inspired by the sounds of ‘Lotus’, by Secret Garden)

The monk

January 5th, 2026

the tyranny of solitude,

remiss to hold you close to others,

with self a burden on your shoulders,

you move uphill toward that ledge of fortitude,

with certainty tipping your every step,

returning not to end a battle or a war,

but a defeated purpose lost to senses,

climbing to feel that breeze clearing the slumber

that dragged you back to hope again so faithfully,

with chains felt riveted by gods themselves in honour

of being just oneself among the crowd

of figures made to follow or be followed,

the one who knew what pain felt like,

alone,

yet not in horror.

(inspired by the sounds of ‘Written in Stone’, by Ólafur Arnalds · Alice Sara Ott)

Category: The Strangers

The poet

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The master

The monk