Whispers of the Unseen
The sky bends low today,its weight pressing against the horizon,
a canvas smudged with charcoal and gold.
Somewhere, a door creaks—
a sound that doesn’t belong to the wind,
but to the memory of a house
that no longer stands.
I walk through the field,
the grass parting like water,
each blade a silent witness
to the stories I carry in my pockets.
The earth hums beneath my feet,
a song older than language,
older than the names we give
to the things we cannot hold.
And yet,
here I am—
a flicker of light
in the vast, unblinking dark,
trying to make sense
of the shadows
that stretch and shrink
with the turning of the world.