It begins just as the world tilts forward,
Not a lurch, not a collapse,
but the faintest surrender of balance -
as if the horizon has forgotten its posture.
-
Shadows lengthen where there is no sun.
The air thins, brightens,
a taste of copper at the back of the tongue.
-
Something small slides inside me,
like a coin dropped down a well.
The echo never comes back.
-
Branches angle toward the slope,
their leaves turned like pages
I can't yet read.
-
I think of brakes,
of choices I've rehearsed in quieter rooms,
but the silence here is weight enough.
-
Forward becomes a spell spoken under breath,
a vow pressed into the mouth of the earth.
And I, standing on the lip unseen,
understand the tilt is not in the road,
but in me.
About the Creator
Aspen Noble
I draw inspiration from folklore, history, and the poetry of survival. My stories explore the boundaries between mercy and control, faith and freedom, and the cost of reclaiming one’s own magic.
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Comments (2)
I wasn't expecting the last line but it really fits and I think you did an excellent job with the prompt. Well done!
"Branches angle toward the slope, their leaves turned like pages I can't yet read." This stanza was my favourite. Loved your poem!