No thread of speech can weave the soul’s bright flame,

No art can mirror what no heart could name.

My love for you… a rose ablaze with fire,

Its petals strewn upon the path of dreams.

Its crimson burn has marked my lips entire—

To touch you once is to feel passion’s streams.

Life spins its threads amidst the starry spheres—

I found you, and it eclipsed all my fears.

May love’s eternal hearth, our steadfast light,

Be ever yours, the beacon through the night.

My love… a wave of tenderness and might,

It draws you close, yet dares to take your flight.

It speaks of worlds both perilous and sweet,

Where danger yields beneath our hearts’ fierce beat.

Angel or demon, flesh or spirit’s guise,

I do not know, but in your gaze truth lies.

What life was mine before your light broke through?

The seas are fiercer now, but they’re for you.

“The night before my first university exam, doubts swirled in my mind. What if I failed? What if I lost myself in the pursuit of success? I picked up my pen and wrote to find clarity…”

When one eye looks ahead,

The other seeks the hidden thread.

I rush forward, doubts cast behind,

And the wind strikes sharp, unkind.

But if I lose my inner flame,

The path dissolves, a fleeting game.

Flowers bow in silent grief,

And all I sought becomes too brief.

Battling whims with futile tears,

I waste my strength through empty fears.

To understand is not to yield,

But to stand firm, with soul as shield.

Eyes, mirrors of a restless soul,

Veiled by storms that take their toll.

Inside, a tempest churns and sighs,

While peace, elusive, shuns the skies.

Flames rage, searing heart and mind,

Agonies leave no solace behind.

Doubts, fears, and fierce reproach ignite,

Until the soul reclaims its light.

A weakened spirit bends and breaks,

Steeped in the trials life undertakes.

Yet strength within, a steadfast guide,

Holds the body when all else has died.

“Vices are evil,” the wise declare,

Yet truth and virtue are rarely fair.

When judgment falls, swift and austere,

Even the proud bow low in fear.

But when thoughts rise, the chariot rolls,

To wage a war within the soul.

And only those who endure the test,

Will stand and say, “Hold fast! I’m blessed!”

“Visiting Dostoevsky’s museum was a pilgrimage. As I stood by his desk, I felt the weight of his words, timeless and true. This poem is my tribute to him, to his city, and to his legacy…”

Nearly two hundred years ago,

The ink first etched its sacred flow,

Through tortured minds and silent halls,

It shaped the world within these walls.

A city swathed in smoke and stone,

Bore witness to the seeds he’d sown.

His quill revealed the aching cries,

The human soul, its lowly skies.

Through guilt’s embrace and maddened love,

He sought the heavens up above.

His seizures—gifts, both curse and grace,

Unveiled the frailty of our race.

The spire of Peter’s dreams stood tall,

While fog embraced the river’s call.

A dual city, shadowed, bright,

Where sin and virtue shared the night.

He walked the streets where horses trod,

Where stones bore weight beneath their nod.

And in their laboured, ceaseless tread,

He felt eternity’s hymn instead.

Dostoevsky’s eyes could see

The duality of humanity.

His legacy whispers, timeless and clear,

In Peter’s mist and Dostoevsky’s sphere.

“After a long day as a lawyer, exhaustion weighed on me like armour I couldn’t remove. It was as if I had fought a battle only to discover there was no victory. I poured my weariness into these words…”

I dropped my sword in battle’s haze,

A weary knight through endless days.

My armour fractured, my spirit worn,

A silent witness to wars I’ve borne.

I left my demons in the dust,

But still, they clawed, relentless, just.

No laurel crowns, no victor’s prize,

Just thorn-strewn paths beneath grey skies.

The cross I carried, sharp and cold,

Has bent my back, no strength to hold.

I sought the light in fleeting dreams,

But found instead life’s fractured streams.

Why does fate’s flame so fiercely burn,

Only to fade, its embers churn?

The ash takes root where passion lay,

And life, once bright, dissolves to grey.

My soul, unbound, begins to rave,

Immortal spirit, mortal slave.

The poison tempts, salvation calls,

Yet shadows stalk these hallowed halls.

A knight once stood within my chest,

Now he lies still, resigned to rest.

With trembling hands, I lift my plea:

Is peace found only in the sea?

The veins that pulse, the silvered strands,

The fleeting strength of faltering hands—

I search the skies, the earth, the sword,

And find no solace, save the Lord.

Through battlefields of endless night,

I march alone, devoid of light.

Yet hope, a whisper soft, delays—

Perhaps the dawn will bring my day.