LUCCIAN LAYTH
Bio
L.LUCCIAN is a writer, poet and philosopher who delves into the unseen. He produces metaphysical contemplation that delineates the line between thinking and living. Inever write to tellsomethingaboutlife,but silences aremyway ofhearing it.
Stories (46)
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The Lower Shelf
The Lower Shelf by luccian.layth An old bookstore on a street he won't remember the name of. Ghaith pulls a book from the bottom shelf, wipes the dust with his finger without meaning to. A woman stands nearby reading upright, as though standing is part of the act.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH3 days ago in Fiction
You-You Hymn?
it comes again — from heaven a strike of thunder— not a post-trample echo from a distinct temple I roar— I sample was—Sam? my bond to Adam? seek it— death. feel it or not I shall turn this summit—solid no admiration, no proving a provoking rhyme— not for your tongue funny to tell… but when you hear—me, that you— you-you… hymn? how? why ask— as if I would answer in fact, I don’t I threw the puzzle—berserk heavy on your body void-smirk, my joke skull. labyrinth. no blueprint sign it significant—arrogant… at its—end I saw you reading your eyes—clap / collapse your mind—crack… cracks
By LUCCIAN LAYTH9 days ago in Poets
The Settling
Lyrically—sign, atone / atom / Adam— a cracked apple bleeds its proof: sweetness first, then the settling truth. If it was ever worth the devil, stand— and wrestle. When the storm remembers you, I arrive as thunder— each letter a black sheet slowly settling. Heavy strike—a divine edge through time— you divide in a minute. After… what remains of you learns the shape of absence. I define nothing. If I were something, I would speak once— zip the one, and force it into None. None / All—the pillar stands. Humans squat the halls of time.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH9 days ago in Poets
Ra'ad Does Not Dwell in Time . Content Warning.
Ra'ad Does Not Dwell in Time By luccian layth Here collapses a corner of events — purely narrative, risen from the drain of our old house's gutter, seeping into the channels of a despondent city. Dark of atmosphere. Wretched to look upon. Like an old grey woman the ages have ruined, her sides ulcerated, spoiled like dried apple where worms have long since finished their work and moved on to something equally forgettable.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH9 days ago in Fiction
AL-Alaq
Man does not begin from himself… he arrives late, as if something had already been unfolding before him, quietly, beyond his reach, until it gathered enough to appear as a beginning, while it was only a continuation of what had never been named. And there, in that unstable threshold, something almost imperceptible holds together—just enough—and what emerges is not a thing, but a delicate mistake: an entity.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH22 days ago in Humans
Diaries to Nietzsche
"He who lives with a void can forge his own why, and from it shape any how." Yet while the world is consumed by distraction, a man sits crafting his soul with his mind. What they call madness becomes an explosion — and that explosion becomes the evolution of a century.
By LUCCIAN LAYTHabout a month ago in Poets
One Minute — Nine O’Clock
Quietful mystique — a feeling, perhaps mistaken — the moment I took for too long. The mystery of the soul and the brain. Brown eyes I was born with, a degree. Why aren't we free — a realm of questioning, reasoning about who is real? Are we?
By LUCCIAN LAYTHabout a month ago in Poets
