HeyJaredPS, I Love You
Deep thoughts, by PS Conway: literature, poetry, writing, life, whatever...
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 11
- Latest publication
- Sep 19, 2026
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- Jul 11, 2026
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when nothing left of us remains (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedthe music of the darkness calls in minor key, slow shadows dance along the walls, a quiet pall, such dreams recall our first romance, those inner flames which cast no light yet warm our hearts throughout the night. love’s lyrics flow in wine-stained waves, unseen but felt within our souls, we are but ghosts, whom longing craves, bound to the heat of mortal coals – each kiss a salve on blistered lips entranced within each hea
tweedly-dee (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedi hear birds on the roof i see feathers in the sky they guide me in the stillness before daybreak i fear their florid revelations peck-peck peck-peck a dreamcatcher built from their boiled bones collects the evil things returns them to the places where Balrogs sing our names meat still in my teeth yet i survive pretty bird pretty-pretty-pretty bird tweets like words scuttling like feet the robin preens his breast so sweet bi
a maskil (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published i have learned to accept my lonely exile – or at least to wear it like a thin mourning shawl… it’s not so bad being alone. i have my words, my ideas, images that sweep and stir me to roaring waterfalls outside the city of David. deep calls to deep in my sleep, i dream of you and seek your light, i am thirsty to drink from your stream, though its banks are dry and bitter... panting deer pause and tremble as they kneel, parch
the futility of mimesis (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedi’ve never seen the moon… not really, only its residue on the surface of things – the way silver collects in rain-stained streets or how glass holds a little breath just before it breaks. i’ve seen porchlights try to become it, halos caught in midnight dewdrops, a lover’s shoulder illuminated in the slow deceptions of night’s periphery. i’ve mistaken it for forgiveness, for a god that doesn’t ask much, for the face of
how tired i have become (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedhard to breathe, sleep slinks away, shy like a shadow at sunset. my dreams have faded, heart racing, craving comfort, unmoored from piety, aching for a loving mother’s touch. “to dream,” says the bard, “perchance to die,” but how can one so godless as i know whether the blade is kinder than the wound? can’t explain its crimson pull nor the fear that drives me from this shroud, this cloud of doubt that consumes me, asks me to
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