The Orchha Anthology - Lines from Late December

Just an anthology of my stuff I suppose

[orchhapoetry]

Authors Note - The Orchha Anthology

PLEASE READ THIS

The Orchha Anthology is a 7-piece work composed of handwritten poems written by an unnamed author over the course of days at the tail end of 2025. The name stems as a double entendre - both the name of the place where these works were composed, as well as being a Bundeli word, translating directly to "Hidden Place", a phrase the author believes sums up the work rather aptly. The Anthology communicates themes of queer identities, self-doubt, body and mind dysphoria, as well as more severe references of death, self harm and suicide. The anthology was not written with creative intent. The author reports that streams of consciousness rather wrote the lines of each poem, and that these works were a form of "venting" for them, leading them to be extra protective of their materials and words during this period.

These works are ordered by Opus number (OP.X), starting at 1 being the earliest work, and 7 being the most recent. All works are also dated in the format dd/mm/yy.

In the months since writing this Anthology, the author had started formal psychological counselling for anxiety related symptoms, however it allowed them to partially work through the themes covered in this series. The author also consistently reports episodes where similar themes recur in the current day, plunging them back into this era of their lives, however they seem to only last an hour at most.

The Author is okay. That part is certain. Excluding these episodes, they are able to continue to lead their lives with little to no hinderance, and although these poems led them to make great personal decisions, they believe there was little change to their psyche as a result of them.

AUDIENCE DISCRETION IS ADVISED WHEN READING THESE WORKS - SEVERE, MATURE THEMES PRESENT.

Any questions, feel free to ask!

Copyright Information

(C) 2025-2026 - @orchhapoetry ([email protected]) All rights reserved.

THIS WORK MAY NOT BE COPIED, QUOTED, OR USED FOR CREATIVE PROCESS WITHOUT ATTRIBUTION TO THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR. THIS WORK MAY NOT BE USED FOR AI TRAINING OR ANY OTHER COMMERCIAL CONTENT USAGES

IF YOU SEE THIS WORK BEING USED UNLAWFULLY - PLEASE NOTIFY THE ORIGINAL AUTHOR AND COPYRIGHT HOLDER ASAP

[gutz-spl4tter3d]

Hey btw your first thought when seeing someone happy and enjoying their interest should NEVER be “I hope they die”. You need serious help if that’s it.

TW death threats(?) / suicide mentions

I saw a video of someone talking about a popular audio of someone reacting strongly to poison, specifically when Angel says “I can only blame myself” and how it’s fucked up to be meme-ing on someone who clearly js has trauma. Almost every single comment on that video was “keys” (in case you’re not versed, meaning, kill yourself). No one’s response should EVER be that when you hear about trauma. Because that would not be the response if it was any other “trendy” piece of media. You are telling human beings, often times children, to take their own life because it’s trendy. That’s fucked up beyond belief.

[orchhapoetry]

On the Edge - OP.7

1/1/26

Life is mortal, Plans are ambitious, So much to want, So little time to have.

There's too much to ask for, That means you have to question, What is it you long for? What is it you need?

Some questions have answers, Some need more thought. So go to Bunnings, And buy a shovel.

Without a trowel, You cannot dig. And if you strike rock, You have to know when to stop.

Like a man, At the tip of a cliff, With no mind to turn around, Their car will be left there.

The family will idolise it, Enshrining the memory. And the pain on four wheels, Sits in the drive.

Or a wired chair, Volta. Paying equally, For the sinners that sit.

It's all connected, History and the present, Which determines our future.

This cut won't heal. It will scar & cut deep.

Lifelong. Traumatic. Repercussions Galore.

And these consequences, Are quite easy to see. None with honour would dare, Go through with this torture.

Why me? Why must I inflict pain? What blinds me to see? To prevent this sentence.

I see nothing.

No restraints. No warnings.

All mislabelled. Nerves, they say. Thus is life...

On the Edge.

[orchhapoetry]

Anticipation - OP.6

31/12/25

Like coffee it brews, Releasing every flavour, From every bean. And turning water brown.

An earthy taste, Masked by cream & sugar, Such that even a child could drink.

As each wind swells, Watches tick, Messages ding, From far away.

It steeps & concocts, Concentrating, unfiltered, raw. Typically take it white, But this has to be black.

It inches evercloser, Fresh starts, Redemption, New beginnings.

All shining bright, Hopeful.

Yet behind the bright smile, Sullen eyes. What's so known & unknown, Unspoken.

There is no way to word it, To quantify it.

Such can only be labelled, Misnomers, but labelled.

My environment doesn't help. It encourages the... Macchinations. Visions.

They are the block, The step.

One I've vowed to overcome, In this stairway to heaven.

It brings me closer, To knowing, to feeling,

Myself.

I am lost, In cornmazes or labyrinths, Sometimes a maze with no prize.

And when fireworks pop, And light up my skies, My arc begins.

My opportunity, My journey, To find:

Me.

Till then I wait, In open walls, Ample view of the stars.

Its cold & lonely, But it won't be for long.

I am coffee, I brew & simmer, Usually masked with cream & sugar, Now black.

I sit, In sole courtyard, Less sole soul, In wait. In...

Anticipation.

[orchhapoetry]

A Warm Morning - OP. 5

31/12/25

Shadows stand strong, From a weary seated sun. Perching on the horizon, Testing the water...

Once cold, Illuminated. Once alone, Populated.

Redemption approaches, Each minute evercloser, Resolutions promised, Most failed.

Not one, though. One stands determined, Fuelled by passion, Belonging, curiosity & the new.

A renewal. Fresh start. Clean slate.

Here in this same lonely courtyard, Now less lonely.

The same feudal boy, Less lonely too.

In unexpected faces, In guards & procession, A forever-valued motorcade.

A hidden place, Of secret beauty, Waiting to be found.

A calendar soon to start, One of revival, Salvation from my meek past. My troubled existence.

Thriving, not surviving. Living, not dying. Truth found, not hidden.

It shall be so, When the ball drops, When the sky lights up, In bangs, pops & fizzes.

And even in blinding lights, One thing outshines:

It is a drug, The way it gets me high.

It is bright, guiding, It is the root of whimsy,

It is Hope.

Hope felt on heart, On a warm morning.

[orchhapoetry]

Unexpected - OP. 4

30/12/25

The same clouds, Cold, familiar, expected. The same lonely courtyard, Cold, familiar, expected. The same sole soul, Cold, familiar, expected.

A tucked away bustle, Chiming back in. A friendly fog, Passing on by.

For returned setting, A new view emerges. Something brighter, Even in this dark knight.

The beat and boom, Fireworks approaches. Hours count down, Till calendar count up.

And in familiar faces, You'd expect the expected. Alas, not the case.

They outstand: The Eugene in the German Soldier.

These guards stand by me, Defending from bourgeois attack, Or treasonous assassination.

I cannot lie, I oft know not, But sometimes, Tis the light of my moons.

I surprise oft myself, For good or evil, Yet my moons stand by me, High and low, thick and thin.

These overwatch guards, I cannot thank enough. They are my lifeline, When life seems, Not on the line.

And in those times, They are whom I go, They are those I love.

They are my moons, The ones who care, Even for me.

That is unexpected.

[orchhapoetry]

The Solitary Post - OP. 3

30/12/25

The Solitary Post

A gradient, Reds, pinks & purples, Silhouettes and highlights, Long shadows, An equally long line Of cascading postal lights, Footsoldiers, guards of honour, And their commander: Celestial overwatch.

The arc progresses, Colours mute, light bends, A blank purple slate, Backlit by a fleeting warmth.

The blankness is the perfect match, For our shining star, Perched on craggly fence, Worn, yet beautiful.

Tis a granite house, No, a gazebo fits better, A stage where the true, Seeking true, seeking faith, May genuinely see, All there is to be.

But the post himself is lonely, Once populated, Once useful,

No longer.

Just a show piece, A shell of its former self, With no light of redemption

This post is not lonely of himself. He has made his decisions in his day, Decisions... less than thought though.

His choices echo forevermore, There is no remorse for him.

That ran dry long ago.

Heinous war crimes, Empty promises to protect, Failures and shortcomings, The post's file is near fully black.

The post deserves to be lonely. Its treason, its betrayal. He is unworthy to hold another close.

He has done this to himself, He knows through and through. Despite all he has done, In good, in benefit. Tis all vain now.

No escape, eternal sentence. The Solitary Post

[orchhapoetry]

A Castle in View - OP. 2

30/12/25

A Castle in View

Last night's fog has lifted, And once a silhouette, now seen. Cathedral-esque spires, Continents away.

With equal majesty, They stand. Tall, proud, strong.

The boy sits again, As lonely as before, But the courtyard isn't.

Life bustles through, Stopping by to chat. Even in company, he is lonely.

This moment is fleeting, Taxibells call. Yet the boy sits, A castle in view.

The castle sits, In a land of discord. Yet masses flock to it, Not the boy.

Regardless, the castle stands, Tall & majestic, Historic & humane, Yet humble.

Built to boast, It is now a statue of humility.

It stands proud.

The boy is lonely, The castle empowers. Maybe he is not lonely, Perchance there is a metaphor, A moral, a lesson, This structure holds.

A castle in view.

[orchhapoetry]

A Clouded View - OP. 1

30/12/2025

A Clouded View

A granite fort, White rock, marble, History-touched and modern home,

A lonely courtyard, Perhaps ancient battleground, Perhaps wedding gala, Or King's coronation, Now empty, barren, History but a whisper from walls.

Lonely but one, A soul - equally lonely. Modern soul, timeless thoughts, Brought by family, Stayed by peace.

For it truly is peace, Lonely but one, No disturbance. No agenda.

I do concede, The peace is cold, Perhaps once lively and warm, Now lonely and empty.

This lonely soul, That keeps courtyard company, Seeking company of his own, Simply sits, vigil, Marble masterpieces, In medieval skyline

His mind, equally feudal, Turf wars, betrayals & subplots, Macbeths and Iagos alike, To be closest to the King, To hold the most land.

A bombarded King, Stuck in ruling to notice, Cannot cope.

The King cannot see, though He himself is not blind, His eyes have been drawn shut

Ruling and leading, The government city-State. The earlship's requests, God's equally.

There is no order of being, This feudal landscape is chaos, Fundamental problems topple castles. It feels only so long till the Royal Palace meets the same.

This King holds few solace. His scribes and his messengers, They are freedom, escape, aid.

Freedom, escape & aid, Ill-afforded in the locale,

But it is too important.

Heaven expects great of the King, The Peasants rely on his Majesty, There is no Freedom, escape, nor aid for this King

His Royal Palace is crumbling, And yet, He hardly knows his Lords. Lords of States not of the Nobility.

The ones that truly matter

The lonely soul, Still sitting on that courtyard, Looks over the threshold balcony:

Only sees a clouded view, Cold, unforgiving, opaque. All the structures from earlier, Now hide in the shadows

As the man, Nay the Boy, Ponders the Kingship of his mind.