Poetry Everyday

[Edna]

The Ocean Keeps Its Secrets

They said the ship was lost—
swallowed by storms,
claimed by the deep.

But I think the sea
simply loved it too much to let it go.

Now it sleeps beneath the waves,
its timbers dreaming of wind,
its sails slowly turning to silence.

Sometimes, when the moon is kind,
you can hear it—
a sigh,
a song,
a longing for light.

Not all things that vanish
are gone.
Some become
part of the eternal tide.

 

[Edna]

The Weight of the Last Breath

Death does not knock.
It stands at the edge of the room,
watching,
waiting for the silence to grow heavy enough to break.

The air turns thick,
the walls lean closer,
and the heart — once so loud —
begins to whisper its goodbye.

There is no sound when the soul departs.
Only the body remembering
how to be empty.

The eyes remain open,
not from fear —
but from awe.
For death is not the ending;
it is the moment the story becomes too vast
for words to hold.

 

[Edna]

When the Candle Bows Its Flame

I watched the candle die —
not suddenly,
but in surrender.

It flickered once,
as if in protest,
then bowed its flame
like a prayer returning home.

We call it death,
but perhaps it is simply
light choosing to rest
in the dark that birthed it.

Maybe we never truly vanish.
Maybe we dissolve
into the quiet beyond sound,
into the same stillness
that waits for us all
with open arms.

 

[Edna]

The Reaper's Mercy

We fear death,
but death has mercy.
It comes not with rage,
but release.

It unties the body
from its constant ache,
unhooks the soul
from the chain of breath.

It closes the eyes gently,
like curtains after a long play,
and whispers —
"You have seen enough."


The living mourn,
because they cannot follow.
But the dead —
the dead walk in a silence
that feels like peace.

---

 

[Edna]

The Weight of Yesterday

Yesterday never leaves.
It lingers at the edge of the room,
folding itself into corners of thought.

You try to move on,
but it follows —
soft footsteps in the dark.

It is not cruel.
It only wants to be remembered.
But remembering
is its own kind of pain —
like pressing on a bruise
to prove it still hurts.

 

[Edna]

When the Stars Forget to Shine

There are nights
when even the stars grow tired.
Their light falters,
and the sky feels heavier than sorrow.

On those nights,
I lie awake and whisper your name,
hoping it might reach whatever corner
you now call home.

The world moves on —
but grief has no calendar.
It just sits beside you,
quiet,
like a friend who knows
there are no words left to say

 

[Edna]

Paper Boats

I write my thoughts on paper boats
and let them drift down memory's river.
Some sink fast.
Some float until the horizon swallows them.

Each one carries a fragment of you —
a smile,
a scent,
a moment caught in sunlight.

I never see them again,
but I like to think
they reach you somehow,
somewhere beyond the bend.

 

[Edna]

The Silence Between Us

We no longer speak,
but I still hear you
in the pauses between thoughts.

You live in the air that hangs
after a sigh,
in the breath that almost becomes your name.

Distance is not the worst part.
It's the silence —
how it learns your voice,
then uses it
to echo what's gone.

 

[Edna]

The Last Light

At dusk,
the world holds its breath.
The sky bleeds into the earth
and everything glows
for one last trembling moment.

That's what love felt like —
a light that knew it would fade,
yet burned anyway.

And when darkness came,
I did not curse it.
I only whispered,
"Thank you for the warmth
before the cold."

 

[Edna]

The Things We Never Said

There are words
that still live inside my throat,
rusted and heavy.

They come to me at night —
half-formed,
half-forgiven.

I wish I had said them
when your heart was still listening.
But silence built its walls,
and pride kept the door closed.

Now I speak them to the wind,
hoping it carries their ghosts
to wherever you are.

 

[Edna]

The Room with Your Echo

Your laughter still lingers
in the walls of this room.
I've painted,
moved furniture,
changed the curtains —
but it stays.

It hides in the corners,
comes alive with the dusk light.
Sometimes I catch it
and almost smile,
then remember
how it ended —
not with shouting,
but with distance.

How strange that love
can leave so quietly,
and yet echo forever.

 

[Edna]

Forgiveness Is a River

I once thought forgiveness
was a door to be opened.
But it is a river —
slow, winding,
sometimes dry for years.

It doesn't erase the past.
It carries it downstream
until the edges soften,
until the stones lose their sharpness.

One day,
I looked back
and realized
I no longer bled
when I remembered you.