midnight poesy

like fireworks that fizzle out, we bloom loud against the dark, convinced the sky is listening, convinced this light is permanent. but the night never keeps souvenirs. we rise from soil with borrowed names, call it purpose, call it fate, stack our days like they won’t collapse, repeat the same motions until repetition feels like meaning. everything circles back. roots to bone, bone to dust, dust pretending it was never alive. love feels infinite until it isn’t. empires feel solid until they crack quietly, one grain at a time. we loop— wake, want, work, wait— polishing routines until they shine enough to distract us from the ending. but even the brightest flare knows its job is brief. it burns, it dazzles, then apologizes with smoke. nothing escapes the fade. not stars, not systems, not us. we return to the ground we borrowed from, complete the circle, as if we were always just passing through                           ...

they were avo and toast, two halves that mattered the most, soft green laughter on crusty gold, warm mornings wrapped in stories told. they spread sunlight like butter on bread, shared crumbs of joy before going to bed. sometimes life got salty, or burnt at the edge, but they stayed close, clinging like a pledge. yet toast can crumble, avo can bruise, love sometimes loses, despite all we choose. they left, leaving crumbs on the table of time, and the knife of absence cut rhythm and rhyme. but memory lingers like crumbs in the pan, the soft and the sharp, the moments they ran. the scent of coffee, the cornered smiles, the quiet small mornings that stretched for miles. forgiveness rises, a slow gentle heat, like butter melting on bread, bittersweet. they remember the flavor, the perfect bite, and let go of the edges that cut too tight. and though they’re gone, the kitchen still hums, with echoes of laughter, the warmth that comes. avo and toast, imperfect, yet true, a story folded into t...

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

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...

 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

  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.                                                                                                                                          ...