In the silence of a morning's first light,
I trace the contours of a world unknown,
Where whispers of secrets take flight,
And mysteries in shadows are sown.
Footsteps echo in the corridors of time,
A journey unfolding, step by step,
Unveiling truths, both harsh and sublime,
In realms where dreams and reality intercept.
Beneath the surface of the familiar,
Lies a canvas waiting to be unveiled,
With colors of wonder, stark and angular,
Where the heart's desires are detailed.
In the quiet spaces between breaths,
I discover echoes of forgotten lore,
Revealing paths unseen, the forevermore.
About the Creator
Isra
Versatile writer skilled in both tale & stories. Captivate readers with engaging content & immersive narratives. Passionate about informing, inspiring, & entertaining through words.
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress3 days ago in Poets
Timothy
My fingers inch closer to the keyboard, itching to obliterate a day's worth of work. It's some of my best writing I've done to date, but at what cost? The words seem to bleed, dripping onto my desk. For a millisecond, I'm sitting in front of a crime scene, looking at dead, begging eyes. Why? Why me?
By Alexandria Stanwyck4 days ago in Fiction
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