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"Poems"

Upcoming Poems

Stay close—Josh is still writing

Beacons, Echoes, and Hues… a gift from a loss was just the beginning. New poems are already unfolding—born from late-night memories, tender fatherhood moments, and the quiet growth that follows heartbreak. This section will feature previews of upcoming pieces from Joshua’s next collection, behind-the-scenes reflections, and special releases shared exclusively with readers like you.

Whether you’re returning for another story or finding Josh’s words for the first time, these upcoming works promise to carry the same honesty, grief, and grace that defined his debut.

The sight of sore eyes

Beneath a sky of muted gold, he roams,
Lost in the patches of days long flown.,
Worn sidewalks murmur secrets of the past,,
Where fleeting images in reflective glass are cast.

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Mysterious and intriguing

In the flow of a day both dull and defined,
He roamed through the hours, a life well-assigned.
Yet fate, with a whisper, arranged a reprise—
A glimpse of his future in someone’s eyes.

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The question arise

Their steps aligned, the world grew thin,
A fleeting moment, held within.
The older man, his breath stood still,
A glance—a shift—a quiet thrill.

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Echoes in the Glass

"What is it, old me?" the younger calls,
A voice so steady, no breaks, no stalls.
The elder blinks—his breath turns thin,
He sees himself, yet not within.

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A Ring, A Story

The old man breathes, eyes locked in place,
Not on the face, nor on the grace.
Not on the youth that stands so tall,
But on the glint—the band so small.

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A Truth Between Fingers

Beneath a sky of muted gold, he roams,
Lost in the patches of days long flown.,
Worn sidewalks murmur secrets of the past,,
Where fleeting images in reflective glass are cast.

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The Shape of Goodbye

The old man exhales—a breath not lost, but thin,
Eyes lingering not on youth, nor grin.
Not on the stance so bold, so bright,
But on the ring—its silent light.

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Between Waking and Unseen

The old man wavers, thoughts undone,
A whisper lingers—faint, withdrawn.
"Rest tonight," the younger said,
Yet in his chest, the weight has spread.

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The Vanishing Pulse

The world flickers, bending thin,
A breath, a shift, a crack within.
The younger fades, dissolving slow,
Yet in his eyes—he knows, he knows.

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The Final Unfolding

A whisper drifts—a breath, a sigh,
The world grows quiet, soft, nearby.
Shadows shift, the silence stands,
A name murmured—pressed through hands.

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The sight of sore eyes

Beneath a sky of muted gold, he roams,
Lost in the patches of days long flown.
Worn sidewalks murmur secrets of the past,
Where fleeting images in reflective glass are cast.

Each step recalls a snapshot of a time once bright,
Vivid neon memories in the early morning light.
He seeks in every shadow, every familiar trace,
A hint of answers that time cannot erase.

Then, on a street where dusk and daylight blur,
A slender figure stirs—calm, obscure.
No words disrupt the hush that holds them tight;
Only silent eyes meet in the waning light.

The older man stands, spellbound in awe,
His heart awash with wonder, trembling raw.
A single, gentle smile on youthful lips appears,
A quiet promise that echoes through his years.

In that frozen heartbeat, nothing more unfolds—
No plea, no query, no truth is told.
Just the lingering gaze of fate woven mysteriously,
Leaving a secret suspended, undefined and free.

Mysterious and intriguing

In the flow of a day both dull and defined,
He roamed through the hours, a life well-assigned.
Yet fate, with a whisper, arranged a reprise—
A glimpse of his future in someone’s eyes.

Across the busy street, amid life’s endless show,
A familiar shadow moved with an unhurried glow.
No greeting was murmured, no nod to agree—
Just a fleeting glance in that silent marquee.

That youthful figure, aloof and serene,
Bore a cheeky grin, mischievous and keen,
As if to say softly, with playful decree:
“Not yet, old me—you’re not quite who I’ll be.”

The older man paused, heart clutched in its hold,
Recalling the chance he’d long left untold.
In that brief, unspoken message, clear yet unsaid,
A future unwritten danced just ahead.

Now, in that moment where fate softly aligned,
He felt both the clarity and the ache confined.
A bittersweet echo of a life yet to see,
Where the answer was murky—a mystery to be.

The question arise

Their steps aligned, the world grew thin,
A fleeting moment, held within.
The older man, his breath stood still,
A glance—a shift—a quiet thrill.

The younger gazed with steady eyes,
No shock, no pause—no great surprise.
As if he’d walked this path before,
As if the meeting held no war.

“Hey, you!” the younger smiled,
Then paused—his words defiled.
“I mean—hey, me,” his voice now keen,
A knowing grin, a sight unseen.

The old man blinked, his mind unchained,
A paradox, yet nothing strained.
“That’s me,” he murmured, “but wait—you are—”
“I am you, yet wandered far.”

“Yes, we are us!” the younger beamed,
A mirrored truth that softly gleamed.
The elder frowned, though lips stayed curled,
“What is this?”—a fractured world.

The younger shrugged, as if to say,
“You’ll find out in your own strange way.”
A wink—a grin—the meeting passed,
Yet time had left its shadow cast.

Echoes in the Glass

“What is it, old me?” the younger calls,
A voice so steady, no breaks, no stalls.
The elder blinks—his breath turns thin,
He sees himself, yet not within.

Not weary, not bent, not lost in the gray,
But standing upright in a confident sway.
Not burdened by echoes of time-tattered skin,
But radiant—whole—alive again.

His frame unshaken, his steps so light,
A man unscathed by the weight of night.
His eyes still burn with hope untamed,
Untouched by doubt, unscarred by blame.

Yet as the elder gazes, locked in awe,
His focus drifts, his heart withdraws.
Not on the youth, nor on the grin,
But on the glint that loops his skin.

A band of gold—subtle, tight,
A secret carried in the light.
A mark of something left behind,
A future blurred, a past confined.

It lingers there, both bold and slight,
Like an answer locked just out of sight.
His breath is held, his thoughts unsaid—
unseen since the last kiss on her forehead.

A Ring, A Story

The old man breathes, eyes locked in place,
Not on the face, nor on the grace.
Not on the youth that stands so tall,
But on the glint—the band so small.

“Why? he whispers, voice undone,
Why do I see you—why does time run?
The younger smiles, no rush, no haste,
No sign of sorrow, nor misplaced waste.

You see me now, because you must,
Not to dwell, but to learn to trust.
The road you walked, the days you spent,
Were never lost, though some were bent.

The elder sighs, still caught, still torn,
Eyes on the ring so smoothly worn.
Why do you have it? But I… I don’t?
His voice is brittle, hope runs gaunt.

The younger tilts his head—no jest, no sting,
Just knowing eyes beneath the spring.
You left it once—the last you knew,
A promise kept, a vow held true.

The words don’t settle, don’t fully land,
But somewhere deep, he understands.
The ring—a story, a weight, a past,
A love once held, too rare to last.

Yet still, the answer isn’t whole
Memory flickers, truth stays cold.
For in his mind, a kiss remains
A whisper soft, a name unstained.

A Truth Between Fingers

He stands before himself—young, unshaken, whole,
Yet time presses in, a whisper, a toll.
The ring glows steady, firm in its place,
A vow unbroken, untouched by space.

You still wear it, the elder breathes,
His voice unsteady, lost in the weave.
I don’t. It stayed… with her.
His thoughts collide, his memories stir.

The younger listens, patient, still,
No hint of sorrow, no test of will.
Because I haven’t reached that night,
The weight you bear is not yet mine.

The elder’s gaze flickers—painfully bright,
A truth so simple, yet heavy in sight.
He sees the strength he never knew,
The confidence wrapped in morning’s hue.

For the first time, through his own tired eyes,
He sees himself—a figure wise.
Not beaten, not lost, not frail,
But someone who stood before the tale

And yet, within that knowing grin,
The younger watches, seeing him.
Not just the man he’s meant to be,
But the shadow of himself—inevitably.

The world doesn’t crack, nor shift, nor blur,
Yet something deeper starts to stir.
In the hush between their fleeting glance,
A future lingers—held, entranced.

The Shape of Goodbye

The old man exhales—a breath not lost, but thin,
Eyes lingering not on youth, nor grin.
Not on the stance so bold, so bright,
But on the ring—its silent light.

“I left it,”he murmurs, voice unsure,
“With her… the night became a blur.”
“She asked for fire—to be released,”
“And with the ash, the ring found peace.”

The younger listens, solemn, still,
No smirk remains, just quiet will.
A gaze that holds—not pity, not pride—
But knowing eyes of time untied.

The elder sways, thought colliding, deep,
For now, the cracks begin to seep.
A dream too clear, too vast, too wide—
A weight that lingers, that bends the tide.

A life imagined, yet feeling true,
A world that never quite breaks through.
A memory stretched, a fate replayed,
A mind that longs, yet still remains.

For in the hush, the truth draws near,
Not fully formed, yet sharp and clear.
His gaze flickers, his breath holds tight,
The younger whispers—”Rest tonight.”

Between Waking and Unseen

The old man wavers, thoughts undone,
A whisper lingers—faint, withdrawn.
“Rest tonight,” the younger said,
Yet in his chest, the weight has spread.

His hands unsteady, his breath too light,
Something shifts beyond the night.
The street dissolves, the air bends thin,
A dream unweaving from within.

“I see it now,” he murmurs low,
“Not a path—but what I know.”
The younger watches, eyes too wise,
His lips pressed firm, no soft replies.

The ring still gleams upon his hand,
Yet now—it feels like shifting sand.
The elder stares, his fingers bare,
His pulse retreating, thought aware.

“You were never here.” The words feel wrong,
Yet deep inside, he’s known all along.
Not a specter, not a guide,
But his own farewell in time’s divide.

The younger exhales, soft yet grim,
The world around starts growing dim.
“I was hope. I was fear. I was the sight you wished was clear.”
“But now… now, Josh, we disappear.”

The Vanishing Pulse

The world flickers, bending thin,
A breath, a shift, a crack within.
The younger fades, dissolving slow,
Yet in his eyes—he knows, he knows.

The elder stares, his hands held light,
No path to walk, no dream to fight.
The ring is gone, the air stands still,
The weight collapsing—bend to will.

“I was never here,” the younger hums,
“You never lived the man you’d become.”
“All you saw, all you knew,”
“Was a dream that lived inside of you.”

The elder gasps, his knees fold near,
A truth too sharp, too raw, too clear.
His pulse retreats, his sight grows dim,
And in the hush—the end begins.

The world unravels, light turns bare,
A room unfolds—a dying stare.
Figures loom in shadows cast,
A name whispered—one breath, At last.

The Final Unfolding

A whisper drifts—a breath, a sigh,
The world grows quiet, soft, nearby.
Shadows shift, the silence stands,
A name murmured—pressed through hands.

The elder lingers, his sight too thin,
Not in a dream, but deep within
No streets remain, no echoes call,
Just the hush—his final fall.

The urn sits steady, held too tight,
His fingers worn, his knuckles white.
A name engraved, a date too near,
The truth suspended—sharp, severe.

“I lived inside the dream too long,”
“I never saw… never moved on.”
The figures watch, their gazes dim,
His pulse retreats— reunited with Kim.

A blink, a breath, a weight released,
A love untouched, yet now at peace.
The quiet hums, the night stands tall,
The dream dissolves—no sound at all.