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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