Echoes of Now
A Poetic Reflection on the Pulse of the Modern Age
🌐 Echoes of Now
A Poetic Reflection on the Pulse of the Modern Age
In cities crowned with neon haze,
We walk through screens in mirrored days.
Our voices bounce through satellites,
Yet hearts grow quiet in the lights.
A thousand faces in our hands,
We scroll through lives like shifting sand.
Connection blooms in silent texts,
While eye-to-eye feels too complex.
The clock ticks fast, the world rewinds,
Yet somehow we are far behind.
In chasing speed, we've lost our place—
A name, a thought, a touch, a face.
Still, in the hum of data streams,
We stitch together scattered dreams.
A spark survives beneath the code,
The human thread within the load.
So let us pause and breathe again,
Remember joy, remember pain.
The future’s built from what we sow—
Even now, in this bright echo.
About the Creator
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The Door That Waits
The Door That Waits No one knew where the door came from. It stood in the middle of an empty field at the edge of town, untouched by time or weather. There were no walls, no hinges, no frame holding it in place—just a tall, wooden door standing alone, perfectly upright, as though someone had placed it there carefully and walked away. At first, people thought it was a prank. Then a strange art piece. Then a portal, perhaps, to somewhere—or something—else. But no matter how many times they walked around it, knocked on it, or pushed it open, it just creaked gently, revealing only more grass behind it. Nothing magical happened. Nothing at all. So they left it alone. Except for Mira. Mira wasn’t like most people in town. She had the quiet, restless soul of someone who always felt like life was happening somewhere else. She worked at the local bakery, smiled politely at customers, and saved every spare coin in an old glass jar beneath her bed. But every day, when her shift ended and the smell of cinnamon and yeast clung to her clothes, she walked out to the field and stared at the door. She didn’t know why. Something about it called to her. Not with words or voices—just a feeling. Like the hum in the air before a storm or the silence before a leap. Each time she touched the wood, warm from the sun, she expected something to happen. But it never did. Until the morning everything changed. It had rained the night before, and the field was still damp with dew. Mira was late leaving the bakery, but something urged her toward the field anyway. When she got there, the door was open. Wide open. This time, the world behind it wasn’t the same field. Through the doorway was something else: a sunlit path lined with trees she'd never seen before. Birds she couldn’t name sang in the distance. The air shimmered, not with heat—but with promise. Mira froze. She looked around. No one else was there. The town hadn’t noticed. The door waited. Her heart pounded. Was it a trick? A dream? Maybe it led nowhere—maybe she’d walk through and vanish forever. But maybe... maybe it led to the life she’d always wanted. The one she dreamed of in quiet moments. A life of meaning, of adventure. A place where she belonged. She took a step forward, then another. Her foot passed the threshold. A soft breeze brushed her cheek, sweet and warm. She smiled. For the first time in her life, she didn’t hesitate. She walked through. And the door closed behind her. The next morning, it was gone. People noticed eventually. They murmured, pointed, and shrugged. Some said the wind must’ve blown it over. Others swore it had never been there at all. But they moved on. All except one small boy named Eli, who sometimes wandered near the field and stood for a long time staring at the empty patch of grass. One day, he told his mother, “I think there used to be a door there.” She smiled, patting his head. “Maybe, sweetie.” Eli said nothing more. But he kept looking. Because sometimes—when the sun rose just right and the air was still—he could swear he heard something in the distance. A creak. A whisper. A door waiting.
By Muhammad Saad 3 months ago in Poets
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