Prose

The Sunder-Glass Bloom
Where silence weaves a tapestry unseen, And earth forgets its verdant, humid green, A garden sleeps, of facets sharp and clear,
By The 9x Fawdiabout a month ago in Poets
The Oldest Posture of the Land
The shift begins in the air’s density: a faint thinning at the edges of warmth, the atmosphere recalibrating its balance of heat and loss. Light fractures differently across stone, and shadows migrate along new vectors. The world reorders itself by degrees, quiet and measurable and precise.
By Richard Patrick Gageabout a month ago in Poets
Who Pulls Her Strings
Who Pulls Her Strings I saw her stand in that quiet room, her shadow tall against the wall. Thin wires rose from her hidden spine,
By Marie381Uk about a month ago in Poets
Guiltmas is Coming
All of these villanelles of regret dragging me down beautifully, Rending new cracks and fissures into this tired old soul, breaking
By Harper Lewisabout a month ago in Poets
My Oldest Root
When people talk about roots, they point to family trees and parish records. Mine run deeper, past any surname, down into limestone and tallow smoke to a hand that pressed red earth onto a cave wall long before my language existed.
By Richard Patrick Gageabout a month ago in Poets
Danu
Awaken my soul I hear your call But I understand nothing Detached from The Otherworld A forgotten past Disconnected
By Atomic Historianabout a month ago in Poets
Winter Afternoon Walk
Frozen snow crunching beneath my feet. The path ahead unending, stretches on. A chill in the air, a brisk breeze blows. As I take a peaceful winter afternoon walk.
By Solomon Walkerabout a month ago in Poets
Finding Baby Sofia. Content Warning.
Vicki created, edited, wrote this story. Vicki Lawana Trusselli The Cry They Tried to Erase This is not just a video. It is a living archive, a protest suite, a cadence of care. Baby Sofia lies on the cracked concrete floor, wrapped in pink, crying against silence. The images, the captions, the cries, and the soundtrack together form a witness that refuses erasure.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a month ago in Poets
The Ghost in the Library
The Ghost in the Library Books whispered softly, their pages folding like wings, and I felt eyes from invisible corners trace me.
By Marie381Uk about a month ago in Poets
Scattered Ashes
Give me a second, to gather up my brain. It’s scattered like ashes, splattered all over the place.
By jl woodabout a month ago in Poets
Still I know nothing
What’s the use of this confusion– stumbling, tripping on my own illusions, somehow coming to my own conclusions.
By jl woodabout a month ago in Poets
Buried
Feeling no self worth A shadow of myself What have I become A beacon of pain A stained canvas for your projections A dark reflection
By Atomic Historianabout a month ago in Poets