Poetry Everyday

[Edna]

The Unbroken Step​

The road is long,
and it does not care
how tired your feet are.

It stretches,
merciless,
into horizons you cannot see.

But still—
you take one more step.
Not because it is easy,
not because the end is clear,
but because stopping
would mean surrender.

And something inside you,
something nameless,
refuses to bow.

So the step comes.
And then another.
And though no one sees it,
you are winning
with every inch.

 

[Edna]

Flint and Stone​

Perseverance is not fire.
It is not a sudden blaze.
It is flint against stone—
over, and over, and over.

Sparks come,
die,
and still you strike.
Your hand bleeds,
your arm shakes,
but you do not stop.

And at last,
when others have turned away,
a flame rises.
Small, but alive.
Born not of luck,
but of relentless will.

 

[Edna]

The Root​

A tree does not rise overnight.
It buries itself first,
in silence,
in darkness,
pushing its roots deep
where no eye can praise it.

Storms come,
winds tear,
seasons wither its leaves.
But the root holds.

That is perseverance—
the unseen strength
that keeps you standing
when all else
would fall.

 

[Edna]

Before the Beginning​

I do not believe we met by chance.
Somewhere before breath,
before the clay of our bodies,
our souls found each other.

I imagine it—
two lights crossing
in the vast silence of eternity,
promising: “When the world is made,
I will find you.”

And so I did.
Not once, not twice,
but in every lifetime—
I keep finding you,
like a river that refuses
to forget the sea.

 

[Edna]

Love Is Not Soft​

Love is not only tenderness.
It is a storm that breaks you open.
It is the ache of missing someone
even as they stand beside you.


It is sacrifice,
it is fury,
it is surrender,
it is resurrection.


Love is the knife
that cuts away loneliness.
It is the fire
that burns down the walls we build.
It is the hand that drags us,
half-broken,
back into life.


Do not call love gentle.
It is fierce.
It is holy.
It is the closest thing
to forever we will ever touch.

 

[Edna]

The Forever Place​

When I look at you,
I do not see a face—
I see the universe choosing
to take form.

Your eyes are the place
where time collapses,
where yesterday and tomorrow
kneel to the moment
we exist in now.

If love is an ocean,
you are both the tide
and the shore.

If love is a sky,
you are both the sun
and the endless dark
that holds the stars.

And when I am gone—
when my voice is nothing
but a ghost in the wind—
know this:
my love will not follow me.
It will stay,
here with you,
forever.

 

[b1u3eyes]

Thanks @Edna tons for keep my topic alive.

I am officially back.

Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Alexander Pope

 

[Edna]

The Last Room​

Death does not knock.
It waits.
Silent in the corner,
like a shadow
that has learned patience.

It does not rush,
for it knows
all things return.
Stone crumbles.
Rivers dry.
Even the sun will kneel.

When it comes,
it is not thunder,
but the closing of a door
a sound so small,
yet so final
it splits eternity.

And what we are
memory, light,
the thin smoke of breath
slips quietly
into the last room,
where time no longer follows.

 

[Edna]

The Soul Unwoven​

When death touches you,
it does not take the body first.
It unthreads the soul—
strand by strand,
pulling loose the knots
of love,
of anger,
of everything you ever were.

You feel yourself scatter—
a thousand fragments
like dust across an endless plain.

And yet…
in the scattering,
something remains.
Not a name,
not a face,
but the purest shape of you,
the ember that cannot be undone.

Perhaps that is eternity:
not a crown,
not a throne,
but the smallest spark,
refusing to die.

 

[Edna]

Death’s Mirror​

I have looked at death
and seen my own reflection.

It did not frighten me.
It was not a skull,
not a grave.
It was me,
as I truly am—
a being of ash and light,
a brief flame
in an endless night.

Death does not steal.
It reveals.
It shows us
that we were never flesh alone,
that what we called “life”
was only the shadow
of something greater.

And when it comes,
I will not run.
For death is not the opposite of life.
It is the hand that carries us
back to the source.

 

[b1u3eyes]

For whom the bell tolls

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

John Donne

 

[Edna]

Between Us, the Miles​

There are miles between us,
but they are not empty.
They are filled with my thoughts of you,
with the echoes of your voice
I keep replaying in my chest.

Every step you take away
I measure with silence,
and every silence
becomes a prayer—
come back, come back, come back.

Yet even here,
even far,
I feel you—
like a thread running through the dark,
pulling me gently,
pulling me home.

 

[Edna]

The Ache of Absence​

Distance is not the hardest part.
The hardest part is the almost.
Almost hearing your laughter
when the wind breaks right.
Almost feeling your touch
when my hand brushes the air.

You are everywhere—
in the sky,
in the night,
in the hollow pause
between heartbeats.

But never close enough
to hold.

And so longing
becomes a second pulse in me—
a rhythm that will not stop,
a hunger that refuses to fade.

 

[Edna]

The Bridge of Shadows​

I have built a bridge of shadows
from my heart to yours.
It is made of memory,
of sleepless nights,
of words I never got to say aloud.

Though oceans split us,
though borders rise,
I cross it every day—
barefoot, trembling,
carrying the weight of my longing.

One day,
when distance shatters,
I will walk that bridge
and find you waiting,
and the ache of years
will finally collapse
into the warmth of your arms.

 

[b1u3eyes]

Hope

Hope was but a timid friend-
She sat without my grated den
Watching how my fate would tend
Even as selfish-hearted men.

She was cruel in her fear.
Through the bars, one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there
And she turned her face away!

Like a false guard false watch keeping
Still in strife she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping,
If I listened, she would cease.

False she was, and unrelenting.
When my last joys strewed the ground
Even sorrow saw repenting
Those sad relics scattered round;

Hope - whose whisper would have given
Balm to all that frenzied pain -
Stretched her wings and soared to heaven;
Went- and ne'er returned again!

Emily Jane Brontë

 

[Edna]

Islands​

I am an island,
cut from the mainland
by waters no bridge can span.

I wave to the world
from my shore of silence,
but no boat comes,
no sails appear.

My voice drifts out,
a message in a bottle,
but the tide always
brings it back.

And so I learn—
isolation is not distance,
it is the prison
inside your chest.

 

[b1u3eyes]

The Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine, –
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

 

[Edna]

The Shadow Companion​

Loneliness walks beside me
like a shadow that never leaves.

It does not speak,
but I feel its weight.
It presses on my shoulders,
sits across from me at the table,
lays down in my bed
when the lights go out.

I tell myself it is temporary,
that someone will come,
but nights turn to years,
and the shadow grows taller.

Perhaps this is all I am:
a vessel for echoes,
a heartbeat heard only by walls,
a soul speaking
to itself.

 

[b1u3eyes]

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron

 

[Edna]

Ashes to Dawn​

I have walked through fire,
and the smoke still clings to me.
My hands are blackened,
my lungs are heavy,
but somewhere in the ruin
a small ember glows.

It whispers,
"Not all is lost.
Even ash can cradle a seed."

And so I wait for rain.
And so I wait for dawn.
And when the light breaks,
I will rise
not the same,
but remade.

 

[Edna]

The Seed Beneath the Stone​

Beneath the hardest stone,
a seed waits.
Buried deep, forgotten,
it learns the patience of the earth.

Storms pass overhead.
Winters stretch long.
But the seed keeps breathing,
silent, unseen.

Then one day—
when the soil softens
and the sun bends down—
a green thread breaks through.
What once was hidden
becomes a hymn of survival,
a song of life returning.

 

[Edna]

The Lantern​

In the pit of night,
I thought I was blind.
No stars.
No flame.
No path.

But then
a faint lantern inside me stirred,
a fragile light,
not blazing, not bold,
but enough to keep me walking.

Every step fed it.
Every breath fanned it.
And though the dark
never fully left,
the lantern grew stronger,
brighter,
until I realized
it was not the night
I feared,
but forgetting
I carried my own dawn.

 

[Edna]

Lovers in the Ruins​

The bombs fell,
and the city cracked open like bone.
But in the rubble,
I found your hand.

Your grip was trembling,
your face streaked with ash,
yet your eyes burned steady—
a fire that no war
could extinguish.

The world was ending,
but love refused to bow.
Two hearts,
beating like defiance,
in the ruins of everything else.

 

[Edna]

The Soldier’s Prayer​

I carried a rifle in one hand
and your letter in the other.
One killed.
One kept me alive.

When the night was full of screams,
I read your words by candlelight.
When my brothers fell,
I whispered your name to steady my aim.

War makes a man a ghost
before he dies.
But love—
love made me human again,
if only for a moment.

If I return,
I will not bring medals or glory.
I will bring myself,
and the truth
that even in blood and smoke,
I never stopped loving you.

---

 

[Edna]

Love Is the Last Victory​

War can take the fields,
the cities,
the bodies.
It can take the sky itself
and choke it with fire.

But it cannot take
what the heart holds.

Love is the last territory
that no empire can conquer.
It blooms even in trenches,
sings even in prisons,
waits even when death
has already claimed the room.

One day the cannons will rust,
the soldiers will sleep,
the flags will rot in the ground.

But the memory of how you held me,
how you whispered through the smoke—
"I am still here"—
that will outlast
every war.

 

[Edna]

The Door Without a Key​

Death is not a thief.
It does not break in.
It waits—
silent, patient,
with a door that opens
only inward.

One day,
the body grows tired of knocking
on the walls of time,
and the soul steps through,
barefoot,
unclothed of flesh.

What lies beyond?
No one returns to say.
Only the echo remains,
and the hollow of absence,
teaching the living
what it means to ache.

 

[Edna]

The Silence After the Heartbeat​

When the last breath leaves,
the world does not scream.
It exhales,
as if it too has lost
a piece of itself.

The bed stays warm for moments.
The room keeps your shape in air.
Then slowly,
reality erases you—
not cruelly,
but inevitably,
like waves reclaiming footprints
in the sand.

Death is not sudden;
it is the slow unraveling
of memory,
the steady fading of laughter
from the walls.

 

[Edna]

Death Is Not the End​

Perhaps death is not darkness—
but a deeper dawn.
Perhaps the grave
is not a prison—
but a cradle turned inside out.

We fear the stillness
because we cannot hear
the music it carries.

But maybe—
when the eyes close here,
they open elsewhere.
Maybe—
when we fall into silence,
we wake in a song
we had forgotten we knew.

 

[Edna]

The Ship That Forgot Its Name​

Once, I sailed with purpose.
Stars above, compass in hand,
the sea obeyed my will.

But storms came.
Waves rose like judgment.
And in the screaming wind,
my name was torn from the mast.

Now I drift—
not forward, not home—
but through endless gray.
The ocean speaks in riddles;
the horizon never answers.

Yet still I float.
For even lost ships
are held by the same sea
that once carried them toward dawn.

 

[Edna]

The Captain’s Solitude​

I am the captain of an empty ship.
The crew are ghosts,
the sails are memories.
The map has faded in the rain.

Each night,
I light a lantern
no one will see.
Each morning,
I pretend the fog is land.

There is no rescue coming.
Only the hum of the sea,
and the whisper—
that some journeys
were never meant
to return.