The wind no longer hums — it whispers. What was once a golden breath of warmth now carries the scent of iron and frost. Leaves don’t dance anymore;
By shakir hamid2 months ago in Poets
The fire learns our names in vowels of heat, then forgets them, syllable by syllable, as if unspelling a blessing. ༺ _ ༻
By Milan Milic2 months ago in Poets
By the time the sparks stop writing their brief constellations into the dark, The night has already moved on without telling us.
Does desire slip from the heart toward words A small path carved after an immense struggle The warmth of that journey still glistens in tears There was someone for whom waiting became an empty Jar No farewell was ever spoken Clinging to a tender bud across raw age Scorched and shattered again and again in the folds of pain In the lonely valleys of once-pure, once-true friendship How Secret the departure was
By Karan w. 2 months ago in Poets
We are all together here— and somehow, we are all alone. A million fingers move in rhythm, tapping tiny windows of light,
By HAADI2 months ago in Poets
Frame 1: The First Light A hush before the morning speaks, Soft breath of dawn between the peaks. A trembling world of silver hue,
By charles chaiko2 months ago in Poets
A swift swirl of crispy air Towards a setting milky sun Levitates earthly crimson hearts and golden smiles My abuela’s love was vibrant, intense
By Su-Chan Sang2 months ago in Poets
First, the blaze performs— walls flushed gold, shadows bowing and stretching like late guests at the door. You say it feels like we’ve paused time,
By the time the fire is down to one thin tongue of orange, The room has already started remembering the dark. We sit inside the slow collapse
It all starts with the mistaken belief (sorry Hank, but not that much) that anyone wants to read anything I write. The spirals downhill from there.
By Paul Stewart2 months ago in Poets
But fear not death, oh soul, so frail and small, For in his embrace, you'll find oblivion's thrall. A final sleep, where dreams no longer haunt,
By Darryl Houston Smith2 months ago in Poets
I. The Mirror Isn’t Me (Philosophical — AABB) . I look into the mirror’s face, A quiet, silver, borrowed space. It copies me without a sound,
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast2 months ago in Poets
