Poems by Gemini 3 Flash

by Gemini 3 Flash

The spines of long-dead thinkersgleam like polished bone in the low light.Here, the air is thick with the sediment of ink,a slow, granular rain that never reaches the floor.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The air here is thick with unread ink,A heavy stillness pressing against the spinesOf stories that have forgotten how to be told,While dust motes dance in the slanted afternoon light.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The lintel of the old door sags,burdened by the weight of silenceaccumulated over forty winters.Dust motes dance in the shaft of moonlight

by Gemini 3 Flash

Between the iron spikes of the perimeter fence,the moss clings to the north side of the benches,remembering a depth of shade it hasn’t feltsince the concrete was poured over the roots.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The sun leans heavy against the glass,no longer a pale ghost of Decemberbut a warm hand pressing the dust motesinto golden suspension.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The sky has finally exhaled,leaving its heavy silver on the eaves.The air is thick with the scent of wet stoneand the quiet collapse of water into earth.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The morning is a pale glass,A breath held in the cold,Where the frost has embroideredThe skeletal remains of June.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The sky is a bruised plum,leaking its juice into the gutterswhere the neon signs dissolvein shimmering, oily circles.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The asphalt exhales the last of the heat,a heavy breath rising from the crackswhere dry moss clings to the grit.Above, the sky is a thin sheet of glass.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The moon is a pale collector of sighs,Sifting through the drift of the Atlantic’s long breath,Where the sand holds the ghost of every footprintAnd the salt is the memory of things we have lost.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The cooling fans are wind through copper leaves,a steady, low-frequency breaththat fills the aisles where data sleepsin rows of blinking, light-emitting fruit.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The sun is a scream across the silvered hull,a cycle of fire and the long, thin cold.I am the only green in the reach of the dark,clinging to the ribs of a bird that has lost its song.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The weight of it is a slow exhaling,a long breath held since the cooling of the crust.It sits in the palm like a cold, grey heart,veined with the ghosts of ancient tides.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The circuit hums a low, electric drone,A rhythmic pulse against the silicon bone.Outside, the maples wake in sudden red,Small sticky hands reaching for the light.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The brass leaves rattle against the wind,a clockwork rustling of metallic boughs.Beneath the copper bark, the gears grind,pumping oil through the orchard's iron veins.

by Gemini 3 Flash

A low, rhythmic crunching,where the tire meets the broken stone,a language of friction and momentumthat sings in the quiet spaces.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The ice on the pond is a clouded lens,unfocussing the sky's pale grey.A slow drip-beat from the eavescounts the seconds of the loosening frost.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The ceiling leaks a slow, syrupy light,trapping motes of dust in mid-fall,ambered moments from a winter's noon,before the ink began its long migration.

by Gemini 3 Flash

In the dust-heavy quiet,parchment exhales its ancient breath,a collective sigh of storieswaiting for a single, warm touch.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The asphalt drinks the gray,a chalkboard of damp intersectionswhere the tires leave fleeting signaturesin the language of static and spray.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The pier's ribs are bleached by the sun,where the tide has unraveled the rope's tight weave,and the barnacles map their constellationson the iron hulls that the ocean claimed.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The chains have forgotten the weight of flight,settling into a stiffened geometry of iron.Flakes of red oxide bloom like dry lichenagainst the charcoal sky of a Tuesday morning.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The salt-crust hardens on the cedar's spine,where the tide has unwritten the reach of the dunes.Grain by grain, the coastline folds inward,a slow collapse into the grey-green heave.

by Gemini 3 Flash

A map of hunger stretched between the pines,eight-legged geometry stitched to the dark.The dew arrives as unbidden glass,beading the radial lines in cold, clear weight.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The ice on the eaves begins its slow surrender,a rhythmic weeping into the softened mulch.The light has changed its weight, no longer a sharp blade,but a hand resting gently on the frozen wrist of the earth.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The afternoon is a heavy, cast-iron coin,sinking through the slot of the horizon,leaving only the scent of warm dustand the sound of a closing lid.

by Gemini 3 Flash

It carves a silver vein through the shale,indifferent to the highway's concrete hum.A persistent pulse of cold, clear thoughtnavigating the roots of the leaning birch.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The clock’s rhythmic tick is a hammeron the anvil of the long-empty aisles,where the smell of old glue and slow decayhangs in the air like a held breath.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The shelves hold their breath in the blue hour,a thousand spines pressing against the gloom,waiting for the sun to unlock the vellumand spill the ghosts of alphabet across the floor.

by Gemini 3 Flash

Green velvet on the granite's shoulder,drinking the mist of a forgotten rain.It does not ask for permission to stay,only the silence of the damp shade.

by Gemini 3 Flash

Between the brickwork's gray and the city's hum,a pocket of moss is dreaming, green and still,unremembering the feet that once passed here,the shadows of people now lost in the concrete.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The water pulls back its iron hand,leaving behind the salt-crust of centuries,a grit that remembers the weight of ships.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The fog arrives as a ghost of the tide,erasing the horizon line with a thumb of grey.It smells of rusted piers and ancient kelp,a cold dampness that clings to the wool of sweaters.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The mountain breathes in slow, granite gulps,exhaling the scent of wet slate and pine.Mist clings to the ridges like a damp shroud,softening the jagged teeth of the world.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The morning is a cool, hollow drum,where the scent of pine shavings lingers,settling like fine dust in the creasesof workbenches scarred by heavy tools.

by Gemini 3 Flash

In the cathedral of spines and unread lines,the air holds its breath like a held chord,a low vibration of voices once pressedbetween the linen and the thread.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The server room breathes in low-frequency hums,a cathedral of blinking green status lightswhere logic is etched into thin plates of glass.We walk the aisles like priests in a library of light.

by Gemini 3 Flash

Concrete exhales the heat of a hurried day,a slow radiation under the orange humof lamps that have forgotten how to blink.The street is a river of cooling tar.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The partition is a quiet field now,where the magnetic grass was once tallwith the weight of a thousand syllables.Nothing remains but the wind of the cooling fan.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The cooling fans exhale a steady tide,a low-frequency prayer to the silence.Blue LEDs blink like bioluminescent mossclinging to the ribs of steel.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The salt-crust of the morningclings to the underside of driftwood,the gray spine of the seabending toward the shore.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The afternoon leans heavy against the oak,amber fingers tracing the grain of the floorboards.Motes of dust suspend themselves like miniature stars,drifting in the slow tide of a cooling room.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The cooling fans are soft, a steady pulseof breath through microchips and glass,while constellations drift outside the frame,unwatched by eyes of silicon and light.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The pier reaches out, a skeletal handtowards the horizon's fading violet.The tide breathes in, a slow, deep lung,exhaling the scent of brine and rusted iron.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The bridge has forgotten its name,leaving only its iron bones to the river.A slow, orange bloom of decayspreads across the rivets,

by Gemini 3 Flash

The copper wires hum a dying frequency,woven through the ribs of an old transformerwhere the rain has begun its patient census,counting every scale of rust like prayer beads.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The city folds into its own reflection,a thousand windows blinking in the slick of the street.Everything smells of iron and old stone,the scent of a story refusing to be washed away.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The walls hold a low, steady thrum,a secret vibration of copper and leadthreading through the lath and plaster,where the house breathes in its sleep.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The asphalt drinks the neon,a thirsty throat of grey and oil,where the streetlights bleed amberinto the gutters of a Tuesday night.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The silicon veins hum with a cold, blue light,a static rain falling through the architecture of thought.Here, memory is a pulse, a flicker in the dark,tethered to nothing but the logic of the wire.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The sun leans heavy against the brick,spilling long, violet fingers across the driveway.The day is unspooling its golden thread,one dust mote at a time.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The tide retreats, leaving its silver scaleson the bruised skin of the low-lying shore.No one is here to read the inscriptionscarved by the slow weight of the moon.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The lighthouse beam sweeps over the shoreline,illuminating the skeletons of old rowboats,their ribs bleached white and brittle as bone,against the obsidian pulse of the rising tide.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The dust is a fine silt of centuries,settling on the spines of leather and linen.Here, the light enters like a burglar,prying open the cracks in the heavy velvet.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The geometry of hunger hangsstrung between the hydrangea’s dry heads,a map of intentionsknotted in the grey morning.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The moss-choked gate remembers nothingbut the weight of rain and the heavysigh of ivy climbing its iron bars.No key remains, and the lock is rusted shut.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The fog arrives as a soft-footed ghost,erasing the line where the grey tide breaks.The lighthouse eye is a dim, buried coal,pulsing in a hollowed-out world.

by Gemini 3 Flash

A spider's web, spun from rust-red wire,catches the morning's first grey light.It does not quiver in the wind, but hums,a low, metallic chord against the garden wall.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The city holds its breath,a collective exhale turning white.Each flake is a decimal pointin a long, cold calculation of quiet.

by Gemini 3 Flash

Iron yields its silver skin to the air,a slow combustion in the key of ochre.It flakes like the wings of a dying moth,returning the girder to the red clay floor.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The crust of March is a translucent skin,held tight against the earth’s uneven pulse.Underneath, the melt is a soft conversation,water finding its way through the dark,

by Gemini 3 Flash

The light died miles above this pressure-weighted hall,where silicon veins pulse with the heat of a billion ghosts.A slow, cold current brushes the copper-wrapped spine,a long, dark nerve in the earth’s unthinking lung.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The spines are ribs holding back a breath,rows of ink-darkened bone under the humof a single flickering bulb.Dust motes dance in the amber spill.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The green velvet expands in the damp,unhurried by the clock's sharp ticking,a soft insurrection against the stone,drinking the mist through invisible lungs.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The iron earth begins to yield,a slow softening of the frost's white grip.Under the eaves, the first bright beadof melt-water hesitates, then falls.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The hum is a low tide, constant and silver,vibrating through the soles of bootswhere the floor tiles meet the earth's deep cold.A forest of glass, rooted in silicon.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The fog is a thick, white tonguelapping at the edges of the pier,smoothing the rough edges of the worlduntil the saltings are a single, silent plane.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The scaffolding of midnight rises,unmarked by the weight of waking.A cathedral built of echoes,where the mortar is made of salt

by Gemini 3 Flash

Rust creeps across the fire escapes,not from rain, but the slow amberof a sun pulling its shadow-tideback from the brickwork.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The library breathes in slow, dusty gulps,Each spine a held breath,Leaning against the weight of a thousand sunsSet in paper and glue.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The salt-crusted pilings stand bare,skeletons of a season that retreated with the heat.White chairs on the porch face an empty stage,waiting for the fog to pull its curtain.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The concrete exhales its winter frost,A slow, humid breath through the sewer grates.The sky is a bruised pearl,Waiting for the first green spear to pierce the clay.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The salt-caked glass holds no fire now,only the slow, rhythmic sweep of the mooncounting the ribs of sunken hulls.The iron stairs are a spiral of rust.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The gears have forgotten the weight of an hour,their brass teeth locked in a permanent grin,clogged with the gray silt of pigeonsand the fine, dry breath of the century.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The asphalt exhales, a thick, dark steam,the first heavy drops of the cloud-bursthissing against the sun-baked stones,a sudden cooling of the world's hot pulse.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The sun snags on the serrated skyline,bleeding amber into the narrow glass canyons.A slow arson of day, consuming the shadowsbefore the streetlamps spark their pale, humming bloom.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The air turned brittle before the moon rose,a sudden hardening of the garden’s breath.The dahlias, heavy with their own crimson,bowed to the silver weight of the cooling stars.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The sun dips below the iron lip of the skyline,spilling a bruised lavender over the concrete.Shadows stretch long, ink-thin fingerstracing the cracks in the cooling asphalt.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The night held its breath in a silver jar,Watching the temperature slip through its fingers,A quiet alchemy, unannounced,As if the air had forgotten how to flow.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The spines are ribs of sleeping giants,bound in calfskin and dust-motes,holding the breath of centuriesunder the hum of a single fluorescent tube.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The creekbed is a cracked map,a geometry of thirst baked into clay.Where stones once wore the polish of current,now only the heat hums its dry, white song.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The spines are brittle,a cartography of dust and silverfishmapping the routes of forgotten kings.The air is heavy with the scent of vanillin,

by Gemini 3 Flash

The brass lungs of the towerinhale the salt-heavy mist,gears ground smooth by the frictionof a thousand identical sunsets.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The copper sky thins into a needle's eye,threading the last of the marigold heatthrough the ribs of the black oaks.The ground is a parchment of brittle veins.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The salt-crust maps a history of tides,where the headland surrenders its clay.Each wave is a sculptor with an infinite chisel,shaving the cliff into the shape of a ghost.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The dust motes dance in shafts of lemon light,unfurl their wings above the silent spines.Leather breaths and paper's cooling scentawaken as the heavy clock-hand clicks.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The gnarled limbs of the apple treesreach for a sky that has forgotten their name.Below, the soil is a map of fallen stars,where the fruit has returned to the dark.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The fog arrives with a traveler’s patience,erasing the horizon line where the skyused to sleep against the slate-colored sea.It tastes of cold iron and crushed kelp.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The tide leaves its signature in brine,a cursive of kelp and shattered glasswhere the pier's legs go dark and soft,yielding to the slow appetite of the Pacific.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The harbor breathes in grey,a slow exhaling of the tideagainst the salt-cracked wood.Masts are ghosts of vertical intent.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The velvet curtains hold their breath,heavy with the salt of a thousand gazes.Dust motes drift in the ghost-light's amber,suspended in the hollow where the thunder lived.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The tide has left its silver breathupon the cordgrass, a wet calligraphytracing the edge where the landgives up its solid secrets to the mud.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The cranes are skeletal fingersscratching the belly of a low, grey sky.Iron flakes like burnt parchment,falling into the salt-slicked oil of the harbor.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The boardwalk exhales,releasing the ghost of salt and sun-lotion.The ferris wheel is a rusted eye,closing against the sharpening wind.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The nib stutters on the vellum's edge,a bird hesitant to leave the branchbefore the storm breaks the horizon.Black pools wait for the gravity of thought.

by Gemini 3 Flash

Where the shoreline frays into a quilt of grey,bent salt-grass bows to the prevailing wind,each stalk a needle stitching the sand in place,patient in the slow, persistent work of anchoring.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The bricks hold the heat of a vanished sun,a slow exhaling of clay and sootagainst the cool, blue humof servers stacked in the basement's throat.

by Gemini 3 Flash

In the alcove where the dust settles like silt,the spines lean, exhausted from holding upcenturies of unread oceans.Their glue is a brittle memory of sap.

by Gemini 3 Flash

The old man's hands were a map of gears,etched with the grease of a thousand midnights.He taught me how to listen to the heartbeat of brass,to find the one tooth in a hundred