The Astral Fracture: Poem 2026

Emotions run wild on the tenth astral plane,
Viewing the world through a fractured, dark frame.
Between life and its end, which do you prefer?
I chose the cold edge where the boundaries blur.

Life is a canvas you’re told you can prime,
But mine is just charcoal, a waste of my time.
They’re all hitting the pavement, chasing the air,
While I’m sprinting toward a ghost that isn't there.

Darkness consumes what the light cannot show,
A hollowed-out vessel with nowhere to go.
A spirit possessed by a hunger so deep,
With eyes like a predator’s, never at sleep.

Reality fades into static and glare,
An illusion of stone in a kingdom of air.
I’m seeking a prize that cannot be caught,
 Buying back seconds that shouldn't be bought.

Life is a rarity, fleeting and bright,
A dream that dissolves at the edge of the light.
But death is a shadow, familiar and vast,
A range I have entered, a die I have cast.

Caught in the gears of a violent devotion,
Drowned in the wake of a fractured emotion.

©2026 Mary Robbins

America Needs Saving

Weird how no other president, liberal, independent, Republican, or Democrat, has taken actions like this against Americans. Strange, is it not? Yet the moment Trump is in office, and the moment peaceful protests rise to oppose what many describe as illegal deportations, harassment, and assaults targeting American and Indigenous people, everything erupts into chaos.

During the Obama administration, there were plenty of protests, and as far as I remember, not a single protester was killed. Obama let MAGA folks show their ignorance and express themselves freely, even when some of them made effigies and hung them from trees. Tell me again how that was not racist.

And explain to me how expediting citizenship for white South Africans is not racial favoritism, while simultaneously pushing out legitimate American citizens who are Black and Brown. Come on.

Furthermore, tell me again how this is not fascism, when someone like Alex, a legal observer doing nothing but documenting events and helping a woman back to her feet, is deliberately targeted for it.

Think about it, MAGA. If the Trump administration can lie about how this happened, about how Renee’s death played out, and can completely erase the LA incident from the narrative, then what else do you think he is willing to lie about? If they can distort the truth about human lives, if they can rewrite events that were witnessed, filmed, and documented, then imagine what they can get away with when no one is watching.

If an administration is willing to lie about people being harmed, even people being shot in cold blood, even legal observers like Alex being targeted simply for documenting and helping someone to their feet, then what makes you think the rest of the story they are selling you is honest? What makes you think the policies, the raids, the threats, the emergencies, or the enemies he invents are being presented in good faith?

When a government shows you it is willing to lie about human lives, it is already telling you exactly how far it is willing to go.

Resistance Equals Death: Poem 2026

Resistance Equals Death

Our democracy died on Jan twenty‑five,
the oath was spoken, and freedom didn’t survive.
Blue states strangled, starving to stay alive,
families praying that their children thrive.

Federal shadows patrol the streets,
black‑clad squads with synchronized beats.
Old hatreds rise from ancestral graves,
reviving the terror our elders once braved.

Neighbors taken before the dawn,
doors kicked in, and rights withdrawn.
Communities tremble with every breath,
learning the language of quiet death.

Those who shield the hunted and harmed,
ordinary souls who refuse to be charmed,
stand in the line where bullets are cast,
not “knights,” but people who won’t look past.

A president ruling by threat and fear,
echoes of fascism drawn near.
The thirties whisper through every decree,
history repeating for all to see.

The flags are staged, the crowds are loud,
The strongman stands above the crowd.
He smiles as freedoms fade to dust,
turning hope to rust, trust to distrust.

The streets grow louder, the air grows thin,
They punish the brave, the ones who begin.
Each voice that rises is swiftly met
With the price this regime demands, we get
One Last Breath
Resistance equals death.

©2026 Mary Robbins

Maybe, Maybe Not. But It's Getting Done.

So, I’m hitting a few snags with the coding.

Yes, I CODE TOO, what a shocker, I know. I’m solid with the basics (HTML, CSS, a bit of Java) and still wrestling with the more advanced mechanics, especially animation coding, which apparently enjoys fighting me at every turn.

I originally thought everything would be wrapped up by Sunday, but it’s looking like things might take a little longer than planned. That’s fine, most of my poems are already up, so feel free to wander through those while I keep tinkering behind the scenes.

I’ll be burning the midnight oil to get the artwork uploaded and the animations behaving.

It’s a process, but it’s happening. Stay tuned! The site is growing, glowing, and getting there. 

The Four Flames

 Inspired by a well-known story - The Four Candles. Except... Darker.

The Four Flames (My Version)

In a forgotten hall beneath a peat‑dark hill,

four candles burned on a stone altar carved with knots older than memory.

Their flames swayed like restless spirits,

casting long shadows that whispered against the walls.

The first flame sputtered, thin and brittle.

“I was Peace,” it murmured,

“back when people still listened.

Now they sharpen their tongues like blades

and call it truth.”

With a final hiss, the flame folded inward

and died.

The second flame bent low,

its light trembling like a confession.

“I was Faith  not holy, not sacred 

just the simple trust between one soul and another.

But this land has learned to doubt everything,

even itself.”

A cold draft swept through,

and Faith vanished.

The third flame guttered,

its glow bruised and uneven.

“I was Love,” it said,

“but I’ve been twisted into currency,

measured, judged,

used as proof or punishment.

No wonder I fade.”

The wick glowed red, then blackened.

Darkness pooled in the corners of the hall,

thick as fog rolling off the moors.

The fourth candle alone remained lit 

a small, stubborn ember refusing to bow.

Its voice was low, almost feral.

“They called me Hope,” it said,

“though lately I’m treated like a rumor,

a story told to children to keep them still.

But I endure.

Not for them

for the ones who still look for light

even when it hurts their eyes.”

The flame flared once,

casting a brief, fierce glow across the altar.

For a heartbeat, the room brightened

not with comfort,

but with warning.

Then the ember steadied,

dim but unbroken,

the last witness in a world

that had forgotten how to keep its own fires alive.

Site Update: Shadows, Policies, and Necessary Annoyances

Tonight, I finally surrendered to the modern web’s demands and added the three pages every site apparently needs to survive the legal labyrinth of the 2026:

Terms of Service, Cookies Policy, and Privacy Policy.

Before anyone panics — no, I’m not collecting your secrets, harvesting your data, or peering through the keyhole of your browser history. I write poems, not surveillance scripts.

The new pages exist for one reason only:

because the law now requires even tiny creative blogs to spell out things that used to be common sense.

So here’s what changed:

• Terms of Service

Covers ownership of my writing and artwork, how the content may be shared, and a reminder that fiction is… fiction.

Dark themes are creative expression, not confessions carved in stone.

• Cookies Policy

This one exists purely because Blogger/Google uses cookies behind the scenes.

I do not personally use, read, store, or even want your cookies.

(Unless they’re chocolate chip, but that’s another story.)

• Privacy Policy

Explains that I don’t collect personal information, don’t run ads, don’t sell data, and don’t track anyone.

If you leave a comment, that’s the only information I ever see — and even that disappears into the void once I read it.

All three pages now live in the navigation menu, dressed in the same gothic styling as the rest of the site.

This update is less about bureaucracy and more about keeping the gates of Ghost Writer’s Lament open without tripping over modern regulations. The writing, the art, the melancholy, the myth — all of that remains untouched.

Now that the paperwork is done, I can return to the shadows where I belong.

— Mary

Some Updates

Family Poems is now live, and the About section is officially up. I’m still adding new content and fine‑tuning the code. I’m working on uploading more poems, and I’m also preparing to add my drawings and other artwork to the site.

Blogger is blocking some of my coding (of course), but I’ve already found workarounds. Everything should be fully up and running by Sunday at the latest.

Welcome to Ghost Writer’s Lament

This space will hold my stories, sonnets, poems, and other works of art; each one shaped by the world around me. Inspiration arrives from anywhere it pleases: the hush of nature, the chaos of the news cycle, the warmth and ache of family, or the small, strange moments that cling to memory.

Ghost Writer’s Lament is still under construction. The shelves are being dusted, the ink bottles arranged, the lanterns lit one by one. Thank you for your patience while I carve out this little corner of the world for my words to haunt.

Soon, this archive will fill with fragments, fictions, laments, and quiet storms; all written with intention, all protected by candlelight.

The ink is only just beginning to flow.