Your mirror holds a folded note:
a heartbeat pressed to glass.
Stitch the fragments deemed flaws—
each crack a crescent moon.
No dirge for the lonely heart,
just your hymn’s steady hum.
Trace the pulse beneath your wrist—
where galaxies bloom, undone.
You’ve always been the compass.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from ngolle disere and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Girl Who Could Talk to Shadows
Ellie had always felt invisible. At seventeen, she was the kind of girl who blended into the background, her quiet demeanour and unassuming presence making her easy to overlook. She spent most of her time alone, wandering the halls of her high school like a ghost, her nose buried in a book or her earbuds firmly in place. But everything changed the day she discovered she could talk to shadows.
By ngolle disere11 months ago in Fiction
Getting Serious About Comedy (Part I)
If I were asked to remark on my life and the childhood that paved some road leading me to this point, I would have to say something about all the funny people who surrounded me for the last 26,872 days (and counting). Somewhere along that road, I became a big fan of laughter and the comedy that spawns it – and, I mean not only my own laughter, but the laughter of others, some of which I have actually been responsible for inducing.
By John Oliver Smith7 days ago in Humor
Comments (1)
Brilliant ✍️♦️♦️♦️