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after the quiet

The storm recedes; the branches bow, their broken prayers drip into earth. A hush remains—no thunder now, just soil that dreams of quiet birth. The days roll on in muted gray, each hour a stone along the lane; yet still the heart learns not to fray, for even stillness soothes the strain. Hope does not blaze, but softly glows, a lantern lit in twilight’s seam; it steadies hands, it slowly grows, the tender marrow of a dream.                                                     -Deia
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the weight we cannot leave

Melanthe: Theon, the nights are long and cold, the world feels dim, the stars look old. How do you bear a heart that’s torn, and walk through days so frayed and worn? Theon: I do not bear it, not alone— I let it walk, a shadow grown. It trails me close through dusk and dawn, a silent friend that lingers on. Melanthe: But it bites my bones, it tears my skin, I want to cast it out, lock it in. To fling it far where waves can keep, and drown it deep in endless sleep. Theon: Yet seas return what we let go, loss rides each tide, it learns to grow. It seeps like salt in wounds unhealed, a ghost the years cannot conceal. Melanthe: Then is there hope? Or only pain, a winter that will not refrain? Theon: Hope is not in forgetting’s art— but setting a place in the home of your heart To hum their song through the tremor and ache, to honor the bonds that nothing can break. Melanthe: And will this ache ever fade away? Theon: It shifts, it blooms in its own strange way. A garden of wild, un...
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introduction

 Theon of Delos — an old philosopher with eyes like bronze in sunlight, hands stained by ink, herbs, and gold dust. Once a wanderer among temples, now a seeker of truth who shapes wisdom like an alchemist shapes metal — slowly, patiently, until it shines. Melanthe — a sea-born nymph, a dark flower of the waves. She was given the role of a muse — to whisper words into the hearts of poets, but never to write her own. Her mind carries whole storms of stories, but her lips are tied by the rules of others.                                                       -Deia
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pen in hand

 The table hums beneath my quiet hands, Ink pools in thought before it stains the page. Outside, the sky folds into shades of ash, And I breathe its weight, gentle as a cage. I wander through the corridors of tomorrow, Building glass castles the clouds might claim. Each dream bends in the wind’s slow whisper, Yet still, I give each one a fragile name. The rain reminds me — I am no puppeteer, The strings hum whether I pull or not. So I sit, as I am, whole in this hour, All I can be — and that is enough.                                                                               -Deia
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