The air is crisp, the sky still deep, the streets outside in muted sleep. A gentle chill, a breath so clean— the season shifts in shades unseen.
By Mario Vogelsteller2 months ago in Poets
Our living room keeps theater hours long past evening’s news; The curtains won’t agree to close—they yawn and then refuse.
By Milan Milic2 months ago in Poets
Glyph is a sovereign language. Indigenous cultures across the globe Using this communication method To inspire, fight wars, and love.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 months ago in Poets
At two a.m., the world goes wide, the clocks forget their keep, and we become footnotes of light—love notes at the edge of sleep.
We create from the empty space with shaky hands. Filling up nothingness that no one can explain. Our thoughts turn into bridges, weak yet real.
By Emily2 months ago in Poets
At dusk, the living room grows lips; the patterns start to speak— a flock of tiny ivy leaves that whisper at the cheek. They murmur from the plaster seams in threads of cream and gray:
I found your name behind the glass, in coils of chrome and light. A snack-sized fate with foil shine that flickered late at night.
I sort the thunder from the sighs and the reds from bleeding blues. The mornings that unraveled me from nights that stuck like glue.
Heady, potent. ~ (inhale) ~ Your syrup Lines my throat, ~ (exhale) ~ As the taste Lingers On my tongue.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
At dusk, the city buttons up its rusted overcoat. And every lamppost clears its throat to hum a softer note. The halos lean like tilted crowns on heads of steel and clay—
I walk through empty rooms, The air heavy with memories I cannot touch. Shadow clings to the corners, And silence presses against my chest.
Sunshine in November—pure bliss, and by the sea, it feels divine. No cold to grumble over, no wind shrieking through my ears, no icy hiss to splinter sound.
By Denise Larkin2 months ago in Poets
