Borrowed light
on choosing kindness when the room is dark
I used to think meaning arrived like thunder,
loud enough to prove itself true.
But days taught me quiter math
what we keep, what we give
and what we forgive when no one claps.
meaning is a cup refilled by hands,
sometimes yours, sometimes shaking strangers.
it is staying after the apology.
watering the plant you didn't plant,
listening without loading advice.
We don't own the sun
yet we angle mirrors
we fail, adjust, fail again
and still the room brightens a little
if that isnt purpose
then purpose is this trying
this borrowing light
and passing it on.
tomorrow we practice again, choosing over noise
showing up early, leaving late
believing small gestures
slowly teaching hearts to see clearly, together
despite fear and doubt always returns home.
About the Creator
Chxse
Constantly learning & sharing insights. I’m here to inspire, challenge, and bring a bit of humor to your feed.
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Inmate Six
The Toll of Inmate 6 I cocked the trigger, I dropped the hammer, Chasing a life I thought was glamor. But the flash of the barrel is a fleeting light, And life has changed in the dead of night. If only I refrained, if only I’d seen, The hollow end of this killing machine. I hear the distant inmates’ clamour, As guards approach in polished armour. Echoes ring through the concrete hall: "Do the crime, give up your time, give up it all." A gallows pole is now my toll, The weight of the iron upon my soul. The Spiritual Appeal Last rites are read, a spiritual appeal, But the silence of God is the only thing real. He whispered to me in a voice like thunder: "Shouldn't have dropped that hammer, or torn life asunder." My response was solemn as the end drew near, Though I told the walls I felt no fear. But the smell of death is thick and close, A heavy, haunting, final dose. Prayer now departed from my guardian’s hand, As I leave the world of the living man. The Reaper’s Receipt The reaper chimed in with a hollow grin: "No more games to play, let the fire begin. Hell is coming your way, Inmate 6, The clock has stopped its rhythmic ticks." The inmates shout through the bars and steel: "Should have cut a deal for an appeal!" But now it’s late, the walk is straight, With my own two hands, I sealed my fate. The rope was set, the air grew thin, The price was paid for the original sin. The gallows pole took a heavy bend, And Inmate 6 met his silent end.
By Vinn Black4 days ago in Poets
Off the Book
It ended like every other stupid idea. Badly, and alone. I’m researching digital confession ethics, he said. A tech ethicist. He gestured at floating data I couldn’t see then pulled out a physical notebook. Actual paper, fountain pen. He held it up like he was showing me scripture.
By Nicky Frankly2 days ago in Fiction
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