It happens in the quiet,
A small surrender of balance-
Like the breath before rain,
Or the hush before a hand
Finally lets go.
The trees lean first,
Offering their crowns to the wind.
Windows blink awake,
And every clock stumbles,
Spilling seconds across the floor.
The ocean forgets its rhythm,
Sliding farther up the shore
Than it ever meant to,
Pulling the sand's heartbeat
Out from under it.
I grip the air
As if it will keep me steady,
As if my own pulse
Won't tumble forward
Into whatever waits
Beyond the edge of this moment.
And still-
The horizon tips its face toward me,
As if to say:
Falling is just another way
To be carried.
About the Creator
The Omnichromiter
I write stories like spells—soft at the edges, sharp underneath. My poems are curses in lace, lullabies that bite back. I don’t believe in happily ever after. I believe in survival, transformation; in burning and blooming at the same time.
Keep reading
More stories from The Omnichromiter and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Path to Salvation
The late autumn evening air filled the monk's lungs, but it wasn't the season that chilled his bones. The heavy-handed presence of evil he had sensed upon entering the woods surrounding this mountain village had not bothered to conceal itself from him.
By Made in DNAa day ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
thank you far sharing such a wonderful good
I love that last line. So soft and reassuring, and it leaves you feeling like letting go might actually be ok.