In the hush of jade-drenched dawn, where fog rolls like whispers through hills, a panda stirs — not quickly, not with urgency,
By Ella Morgan6 months ago in Poets
She rises not with a splash, but with silence — a shadow cleaving the silver skin of the sea. A breath. A plume. Then nothing.
They said he was too small to fight the jackal. Too slow to outrun the hawk. Too alone to claim his place in the sun-drenched wild.
He didn’t learn to fly— he was born in it. Wings weren’t given to him— they were part of his heart. He didn’t seek the sky—
By Ella Morgan7 months ago in Poets
She stands in rust and silence now, her red paint flaked like old sunburn. Three chains dangle like memories— swaying slightly, though there's no wind.
He wasn’t searching for anything. He was just scrolling. In the morning — between the sink and the tea. At lunch — instead of eating.
A ship, not grand, but brave and worn, With sails once white, now frayed and torn, Left harbor under silver skies With hope that quiet seas imply.
It did not start with thunder. Nor the wrath of gods. Just a spark— a cough of heat, in the hollow hush of dry pine breath.
Beneath the concert hall, beneath the stage, in a corner that smelled of dust and brass, lived a gnome. Small, quiet, with hands that knew piano keys
They carved her lips to smile just so. Painted blush, a modest bow. Her hands were hinged with care and thread, and in her chest —
He stands where the path forgot to go, his roots tangled deep in the hush of the earth. His bark wears stories — not carved,
She moves slow — but her thoughts, they fly. Across mossy logs, over pondshine and pebble, to the hill she knows best —
