Poems

Time’s Whimsy Moments Slip like sand,Across your fingers,To squander them’s a dire blunder—Endless. Fleeting, Yet so vast,Time’s gentle grip fades,It watches, cold and unfeeling,Fleeting. Shadows Stretch and yawn,As seconds crawl slow,Yet time’s cruel jest does quicken—Grim dance. Lingering Minutes slip by,Into memories,Gleaming in twilight’s cruel snare—Insidious. Silent Whispers of loss,Time’s knife cuts too deep,Murmurs of […]

The Rusted Echoes In rusted relics time’s own whispers cling, Each corroded edge a battle fought,Their jagged forms on ancient memories bring. Once polished metal, now a serpent’s sting, Each scar a mark of endurance, fraught,In rusted relics time’s own whispers cling. These iron ghosts of past’s forgotten spring, With every stain, a story overwrought,Their

The Rusted Symphony Let me draw you into the story of a relic from the past, a music box that had long been abandoned in a forgotten corner of an old estate. This was no ordinary trinket; it was an artifact steeped in melancholy and mystery, its rusted exterior hinting at a tragic tale. I

The Rust Within Rust creeps like a whisper in the silent night Small steps forward changing all in sight No need to hurry patience rules the fight Slowly yet surely making all things right Iron strength crumbles under nature’s call Little bits of effort change the mighty wall Minute transformations standing tall Day by day

The Rusted Chord When I first set eyes on the piano, it was as if the universe had conspired to place an artifact from a forgotten epoch into my path. Tucked away in a dimly lit corner of an estate sale, it was a relic of bygone glory, veiled in layers of dust and memories.

The Lost Tune I found the harmonica in the dusty attic of my grandfather’s old house, buried beneath layers of forgotten history. The attic was a realm of shadows and remains, where time seemed to stand still. Dust motes swirled lazily in the thin shafts of sunlight that cut through the grimy windows. The air

The Last Performance Dust motes danced in the dim beam of my lantern, their whimsical paths tracing through the stale air of my grandmother’s attic. It was a relic hunter’s dream, cluttered with memories and forgotten dreams: a maze of old trunks, yellowed newspapers, and neglected treasures, all shrouded in the comforting embrace of nostalgia.

The Light of Self-Awareness In shadowed halls where thoughts collide with fear, The path to light begins within the mindWhere introspection makes the darkness clearAnd buried truths are by the heart refined.With mirrored self, our nature’s flaws alignedWe see the light that lights the way, so brightEmerging from our depths, a guiding sight. Reflect upon

The First Step In the dim halls where shadows leer, Begins a tale both grim and clearThe first step echoes cold and direOn a path that fuels the darkened pyre. Each footfall rings with subtle dread, A sordid in the headWhere dreams of grandeur twist and squirmAnd hope’s a ghost on life’s grim term. The

The Last Note We’ve been playing this song for so longBut the music’s off, the tune’s gone wrongThe melody’s cracked, the harmony’s weakWe’re reaching the end, can’t even speak The final note is drawing nearI feel it in the silence, clearWe played it out, gave all we hadBut now the last note feels so sad