Acrostic
Fire That Keeps Us Turning
Within the quiet chambers of minds— of elders and of children still learning— unsaid intentions flicker and breathe, moving in time with the pulse beneath our ribs. They bind us to a center we rarely name, a living knot that refuses to loosen. Voices rise like distant chants, echoing through memory’s hollow halls. A soft refrain repeats what we already know— that stories never truly end. Sacred words circle endlessly, uncovering truths we thought were buried, pulling us forward with naked hands. We do not know where the road will bend. The spiral unwinds without warning. Still, we grip the wheel and sail on, searching for something solid to stand upon. A wild flame settles into a guide, and parted waters stretch wide enough for courage to pass through. Our riches are not counted in gold, but in lessons carved by heat and time. From the living core of existence, through chance sparks of rhythm and motion, a revolving fire awakens, setting our direction alight. Above us, stars stack themselves endlessly, each one a witness to the burning night. At their glow, minds soften, souls align, and something ancient stirs between us. The turning flame gathers its strength there, lifting our spirits into motion once again. The wisdom earned along this path is paid for in resistance and resolve. Those once pursued become the keepers of truth, bearing both scar and insight. They inherit the chase they once feared, moving forward with eyes that finally see. Change survives because it is fed. The fire never sleeps—it adapts. Life reshapes itself in glowing fragments, revealing new designs in the blaze. We are raised inside destiny’s furnace, formed like art pressed from human clay. Our riches are not counted in gold, but in lessons carved by heat and time. From the living core of existence, through chance sparks of rhythm and motion, a revolving fire awakens, setting our direction alight.
By LUNA EDITH4 months ago in Poets
A Christmas Acrostic Poem
Christmas is the time to celebrate, and why not celebrate, and why not celebrate with an acrostic poem to celebrate the season. This photo is when we used to decorate my front yard with lights for the Christmas season, which we don't do anymore since I got sick.
By Susan Payton4 months ago in Poets
The Room I Locked Away from Time
At the very end of the upstairs corridor, where the light gives up and the floorboards grow quiet, there is a door no one notices anymore. It’s plain, swallowed by dust and shadow, its edges blurred into the wallpaper as if the house itself has tried to forget it exists. I rarely walk that far. Still, sometimes—while turning into one of the rooms I still use—I feel my gaze tugged toward it, the way a half-remembered dream tugs at waking thought. The moment never lasts. My eyes tire easily these days, and memory has learned to stay silent.
By LUNA EDITH4 months ago in Poets
