Maranda Quinn

Words bloom like wildflowers in the garden of my heart – each pedal a syllable my mouth could never express.🩷31, totally blind, lover of poetry and prose, trying to expand my short story skills, recovering addict/possible trigger warnings!

Maranda Quinn

Our Love Was The Sunrise

Maranda Quinn

1 min read

I watch as the first blush of dawn Paints the sky in brilliant shades of beauty. Pink melts into gold, and I think of us. Melting into one another. Our love was the sunrise— brilliant, bright, and beautiful. casting light into corners of myself I hadn’t dared to examine in years. Every touch, every kiss, The way you managed to spread your light Into the darkest parts of my being. But I know soon the sun must set The light will fade away. Darling, I can feel the end approaching. The Sun kisses the horizon, A bittersweet farewell. And like all things that are beautiful, Your love must slip away with the sun. Now I stand here, Helpless and alone in the dark, my hands empty, the chill of night wrapping around me. But even in the stillness, I carry the memory of that light— the warmth, the beauty, the way it made me feel alive. Because even though the sun has set, and all good things must end, God, it was beautiful while it lasted.

Poetry

Romance

Johnny Walker: Wish Gazer

Maranda Quinn

4 min read

It was your typical Friday night in my tiny little town of Summersville. Teenage boys were out partyin’… Some of ‘em gettin’ boozed up and comin’ home late. Some of ‘em probly parked in vacant parkin’ lots, makin’ out with their girlfriends — fingers crossed that she would let ‘em go a little bit further this time than the last. As appealin’ as all these things sounded, I was preoccupied with more important obligations. Well, I don’t suppose it’s really an obligation. But nonetheless, I do feel obligated. I can’t help but to feel that way. Before I get to tellin’ you the story, I reckon I should start by introducin’ myself. My name’s Johnny Kole Walker. And ya see, I’m a bit different than other teenage boys. I don’t spend my nights partyin’ or tryin’ to get to second base with the pretty lil redhead down the street. I don’t spend ‘em under the hood of my rusty old Ford or street racin’ till the fuzz show up. Nah… As messed up as it might sound, I spend my nights out in the meadow behind the farmhouse. Lyin’ on my back, gazin’ at the night sky. Not ‘cause I enjoy it or ‘cuz I’m a pansy or nothin’ like that… But ‘’cuz I’m what folks call a Wish Gazer. I reckon it’s a play on words. A cross between wish grantor and stargazer. Apparently folks like me are a real rare breed, too. And sometimes, I honestly ain’t sure if it’s a blessin’ or a curse. But I’ll tell ya, that one particular Friday night… It damn sure didn’t feel like no blessin’. I was just lyin’ there… flat on my back in the cool green grass, lookin’ up at the sky with all the voices swarmin’ around in my head like usual. They used to fill my head constantly. It damn near drove me crazy. But I finally learned how to control it. It took a lot of time and trainin’, and you’d better believe a hell of a lot of headaches, but I finally managed to calm the voices down. It first started back when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper. Heck, I couldn’t have been no older than five or six. I was hearin’ people’s wishes 24/7 nonstop. My kindergarten teacher thought I was bat shit crazy, and the kids at school was always makin’ jabs at me. But after a time, my folks finally realized what was goin’ on and found me a good trainer. His name is Garrett. He’s a Wish Gazer, too. Plus, he’s trained hundreds of other kids like me in his day. So now I only hear the voices when I’m gazin’. Anyway… I was stretched out in the meadow,… Listenin’ to the crickets chirp and waitin’ for the wishes to come rollin’ in. The first one was the hiss of an angry old lady. “I wish my dirtbag husband would just keel over already!” My eyes widened and I skipped over that star. I like to help people and all, but I can’t be assistin’ with old dirtbag husband murder. The next star, my eyes landed on the hushed whisper of a little girl. “I wish my cancer would go away so I can live to be 7 and have my Barbie birthday party.” My chest tightened. A tear slid down my cheek, and I clenched my fists in agony. I could always feel the emotional wishes. I’m somethin’ like a sponge. It literally feels like I’m soakin’ in their anguish… Their pain. Technically, I ain’t never supposed to play God. Which means I ain’t supposed to meddle or dabble in medical affairs or bring people back to life. I mean, obviously I can’t bring nobody back to life. But if I wanted to, I could bring their spirits back to earth. But that is somethin’ I am absolutely never supposed to do. Or there could be serious consequences. Speakin’ of rules, there are really only three important ones. As I mentioned… No medical, no spirits, and when I’m gazin’… I can NEVER EVER let my eyes drift too close to the moon. The moon is where all the forbidden wishes are stored. And I don’t mean, forbidden as in “I wish my dirtbag husband was dead’’ or “I wish my cancer would kick rocks’’… I’m talkin’ forbidden as in pure darn evil. Forbidden as in absolutely NO TREAD ZONE. As in if granted, just one moon wish could potentially destroy the whole universe type of forbidden. Nobody knows what happens if a moon wish is granted, ‘cuz ain’t nobody ever been brave enough – er, well, I reckon I should say just plain ol’ stupid enough – to gaze up at the moon long enough to find out. Well… ALMOST nobody. ‘Cuz What do you think happened on that typical Friday night in the tiny little town of Summersville while all the other teenage boys were out livin’ normal lives? You got it! Dumb ol’ Johnny Walker got his eyes too close to the moon. All the forbidden moon wishes were granted in one lightnin’ bright flash. And you can bet your bottom dollar that dumb ol’ Johnny Walker – along with the rest of the whole darn universe – got hell to pay now, no doubt!

Fantasy

YA fiction

A War Against Myself

Maranda Quinn

2 min read

It's been hours. I have no way of proving how much time has passed, but I know I've been here a long time and I have not moved. It's cold, and the surface I'm on is hard and unyielding like concrete. The only sound beyond my breathing is the steady drip of a pipe leaking far from where I am. It smells like chemicals, the kind you use in a pool, but I don't think that's where I am. I think I'm somewhere underground. All I know is, there is nothing but darkness, all around me. Darkness is all I see. Darkness, and those eyes staring back at me. I haven't moved from this spot because there is something keeping me still. It grips me tight and refuses to let me escape my dark prison. I'm terrified of the dark and all that could ever be within it, every horror one can imagine and those beyond imagining like great dark gods whose burden is to one day devour the world. I have nothing to fight this darkness. With no knowledge of where I am and no memory of how I got here, I can’t imagine myself being able to put up much of a fight… if any at all. I keep my eyes fixed on the glowing eyes before me as I slowly and quietly feel around for something — anything — to use to my advantage. Suddenly, there is a single match, clutched between the fingers of my left hand, and a matchbox in my right. Where did they come from? Were they here before? They couldn’t have been… I don't want to light it. I want to, but I don't. It's my only match, and when I light it, it'll only show me where I am and show me the path to go once, and I have to be sure I'm ready to go, because as soon as that match goes out, I will never see the path again. There is also the problem of the eyes, still staring at me, as if waiting for me to strike that match against the cold floor. The eyes, level with mine, stare and wait, waiting to see my face. Like a predator, perhaps it will not attack unless it is sure I will be easy prey, for it is bound by the darkness as well. The silence and the darkness are starting to suffocate now, and I can't take anymore. My fear is building, my heart won't stop racing, my breathing won't even. I have to go. I have to go now. I strike the match with a trembling hand, and bring it quickly but carefully in front of me, throwing the sudden light on those eyes that watched me all this time and never told me where I was or who put me here. I was staring at my reflection in the mirror, those eyes staring back at me were my own. The match flickered, but remained still, much like me. I knew I should look around me, find a way out, get going, but I was fixated on the mirror and my reflection. Then, I saw a subtle movement, one I didn't make, come from the mirror, a change in the position of my reflections lip's. A blow of breath, and the match went out. I heard my own voice whisper to me from the mirror…’’RUN!’’ followed by a bloodcurdling cackle. And then I was running. Passed my reflection and through the darkness. That God awful never ending darkness

Thriller

Rise & Burn

Maranda Quinn

1 min read

I wander through the hollow night, A ghost beneath a moonless sky, Searching for the pieces of myself, Scattered, shattered, By hands that never cared to hold. You find me broken, In the shadows where I hide, Your touch a blade, That carves my name into your skin, Binding me to you, A brand, a wound that never heals. I am lost within you, A maze of twisted thoughts, Where every path leads to despair, And every door is locked, But still, you pull me deeper, Into the dark where we collide. We are one now, Entwined in pain and pleasure, You take what’s left of me, And I give, and give, Until there is nothing but silence, Echoing in the space where I once lived. But in the ruins, You find the truth, A spark, a flame, That flickers in the ashes, A soul you thought you’d drowned, Rising, burning, Lost and found.

Poetry

Lost & Found

Maranda Quinn

1 min read

If only I had a dollar, For all the things I’ve lost… Time and tears, lovers and friends, Things stolen, and things I’ve tossed, I’ve thrown away the things I loved, Then begged to have them back. But life is tricky and time is cruel, It leaves you and never looks back. I’ve lost money, I’ve lost respect, I’ve lost self-esteem. I’ve lost moments wishing, That it was all just one bad dream. If only I could get repaid, For all the sleepless nights. For all the scars and bloody wounds, From the battles I’ve had to fight. I’ve lost my way 1000 times, But i’ve found new paths to take. I found a way to love myself, Through all of my mistakes. And of all the things I’ve lost, I have found so much more… I’ve gained the woman I am today, And a life worth fighting for. I can’t turn back the hands of time, Or un-cry the tears I’ve shed. But I have found the strength to carry on, And that’s enough for now instead.

Poetry

Constant As The Sun Top 10

Maranda Quinn

3 min read

It seems ironically unfitting that our world is perpetually bathed in sunlight. It would be far more appropriate if it were draped and never-ending shadows – a foreboding darkness, like the color of death and suffering. The Earth, having shifted dangerously close to the sun a decade ago, is now forever engulfed in a relentless blaze. Darkness only graces us for a mere six hours each day, an endless reminder of the hell we are forced to endure. I’ve been working for two years now, since I was 14. At that age, I was pulled from the safety of homeschooling—a luxury that had promptly began when public schools shut down under the unrelenting heat. Now, every day, I wake up to the same oppressive brightness, knowing I’ll be toiling away for 18 hours straight. Our homes are enormous glass bubbles, each family confined within their own transparent prison. I remember my first day on the job, stepping outside into the blistering heat, the sun hammering down like a scorching whip. I was assigned to manage solar panels—a cruel irony, considering the very source of our misery is also the source of our labor. “Another day, another shift,” my supervisor barked, his voice hoarse from the dry air. His skin was dark and cracked from years in the sun. ‘’ if it gets too hot, use the spray bottles! Or you’ll end up like that guy, ‘’ he mused with a chuckle, pointing to a man being dragged off by the guards. The man kicked and screamed, violently clawing at his own face as they pulled him away. I later learned that he had gone crazy due to the constant heat and sleep deprivation. I nodded, my hands trembling as I adjusted the panels, sweat pouring down my face. I could barely see through the haze of the heat, but the site of that poor old man gave me nightmares for months. Sadly, I’ve grown accustomed to it now. no one seems to notice anymore when things like that happen. In the glass bubble where I live, the air is always stifling. My family and I barely speak anymore; words seem to evaporate as quickly as we can form them. The oppressive heat and long hours have a way of wearing down even the closest of relationships. One evening, as we gathered for a brief moment of respite — a rare luxury, considering most times spent in the bubble is spent sleeping or shoving food down our throats like wild animals — my mother’s voice trembled as she spoke, “I’ve heard stories about where people go when they’re deemed unworthy. No one comes back, and the government doesn’t talk about it. It’s like they disappear into thin air.” Her cerulean, blue eyes, once bright and vibrant, seemed to sync deep into her skull as she trembled. “You know I’m getting older. I’m not as healthy as I used to be…’’ “Stop,” I demanded, choking back a sob.“Don’t talk like that. It’s too dangerous.” But even as I said it, that ever present voice of dread was there to whisper in my ear. Always there. Always whispering. I knew that if one of us were to become injured or fall behind, we’d be sent away, just like the others. The fear of breaking a bone or succumbing to heat stroke is as constant as the sun. No one who faces these fates ever returns. People around us, like the poor old man, have lost their minds, cracked under the pressure. Some have died from heat strokes or from the unending sleep deprivation. The government has no patience for those deemed ‘’worthless to society’’. If you falter, you are quickly forgotten. Finally, as the sun creeps stubbornly towards the horizon, I watch as it casts its shadows over the worksite. Oh, how I wish I could appreciate the shadows. But I know that the brief respite of twilight is always followed by the return of the harsh light, driving us back into our ceaseless labor. In this world, the only darkness we truly know is the looming shadow of despair.

Science fiction

YA fiction

A Woman Scorned Top 10

Maranda Quinn

4 min read

TW: Murder, violence, slight sexual content, . ——— The musty scent of dust fills the abandoned tire shop as I lead him inside, my fingers brushing lightly against his. We cross the threshold and he slams the door behind us, stopping to push me against the wall for a passionate kiss. His anticipation is almost tangible as he gropes at me. I play my part well. And just like every other man, he eats it up. It's always the same. "Here we are," I purr, letting my voice drip with practiced charm."Just like I promised —a little fun." His dark eyes light up with a mischievous spark and he grins, completely unaware of the fate awaiting him. I lean in closer, pressing my body against his. My lips brush his neck, and I feel him shiver in response. I let my fingers wander, teasingly fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. His hands tremble slightly, but move instinctively as he starts to undress me. ‘’ Not yet! ‘’ I giggle, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the back of the shop. "Let's go in this little back room. We don't want anyone to catch us, do we?" I say, flashing him a playful, seductive smile. He follows me eagerly, never letting go of my hand. We weave through the cluttered shop, past old tires and dusty shelves. When we reach a counter scattered with rusted tools, I lean against it and hike up my skirt just a little, giving him a tantalizing view. His hungry gaze is locked on my body. Oh, how foolish men are. I slowly stretch my arm back behind me to feel across the countertop, my fingers brushing over the cold, heavy tire iron. Even if it wasn’t pitch black in here, his eyes would still be focused elsewhere. His breathing becomes ragged, a moan escaping his lips. "Carissa, you're killing me here," he groans through gritted teeth, as if he’s being tortured now. I can’t help but giggle out loud. He has no idea what torture truly is. I wrap my fingers around the tire iron and then turn around, facing away from him to tease him further. The look in his eyes is a mix of desperation and desire. I let the moment stretch, savoring the power I hold over him. "Come on, baby," I tease, swaying my hips slightly as I pull the tire iron closer. "You wanted a little fun, didn't you?" He lets out a groan, his trembling hand bunching the back of my shirt. The anticipation is almost unbearable. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, I swing the tire iron. The satisfying thud echoes through the empty shop as it connects with his head. He collapses, dazed and bleeding, his eyes wide with terror. I crouch down beside him, brushing his hair back almost tenderly. "Let me tell you a story," I say softly with a menacing edge. "It begins with a little girl whose father left when she was just three. The story of me and my daddy." His eyes search mine, trying to find some semblance of mercy, but all he gets is my cold, mocking gaze. "He was a cruel man," I continue, dragging the tire iron across the floor. “He abused my mother. Physically, emotionally. He cheated on her with every young skank that glanced his way. He destroyed her until there was nothing left. And I was so small. So helpless. She couldn’t cope when he left, so she drowned her sorrows in bottles, spiraled into addiction. One day, she left me with a family friend and never came back. Imagine that, a child abandoned by everyone she trusted." I stand up, looking down at him with cold satisfaction. "It taught me to hate men. But you know what? I discovered something that my poor sweet mother never had. My beauty, my charm-it's irresistible to fools like you." He whimpers, trying to crawl away, but I place my foot on his back, pressing him to the ground. "I learned to use it to get what I want. And when I'm done, I dispose of them. Just like I'll dispose of you. Just like I’ll dispose of the man I called daddy. Because men like you? Liars, cheaters, disloyal pieces of trash… You’re all the same. “ I look down at his horror with a smug and wicked grin. “And guess what, baby? I’m not small and helpless anymore. " His breathing is ragged, each gasp filled with pain. I swing the tire iron again, feeling the rush as it connects. His cries are muffled and weak, a pitiful sound of suffering. The same sounds my dear old dad will make when I finally find the coward. "You thought you were special, didn't you?" I whisper, leaning close to his ear. "But you're just another pawn in my game.’ I stroke his bloody cheek and press my lips against his forehead. “Oh, but you make such good practice for daddy.” I bring the tire iron down one last time, and then again, until there's nothing left but silence. I drop the tire iron, letting it fall to the floor with a clank, as I collapse to catch my breath. I stare down at his crumpled lifeless form and wipe the blood from my face. God, putting an end to the suffering of women never gets old. At least his wife will be the last woman he ever cheats on. I skipped gracefully over to a corner shelf and grab the box of candles I so carefully hid last night. With a steady hand, I light them one by one and place them perfectly around his body. I kiss his forehead tenderly once more before gazing down at him with a sinister smile. “Don’t worry, darling. You’re not my first victim, and you certainly won’t be the last, “I say before striding out of the building and into the night.

Horror

Thriller

Beyond The Moon Top 10

Maranda Quinn

1 min read

Everyone dreams of flying high, With no sight of land, Oh, how I was soaring, The first time you held my hand. But what I could not fathom, Until too much time had passed, Is that you and I were just, Too beautiful to Ever last. Perhaps in another life, Our souls will intertwine, A land where hearts can beat forever, A world where you’re still mine. In some distant magical place, hidden among the stars, We’ll fly across the galaxy, And make the night sky ours. Till then, I know you’re with me, I can fill it in my bones, I kiss the urn around my neck, And know i’m not alone. The days are cold without you, there’s an emptiness I feel, But when I think of the love we had, I know that it was real. And sometimes when I close my eyes, I feel your hand in mine, And darling, we’re still flying, Where there’s no such thing as time. The thing that fills my heart with hope, Is to know that someday soon, I’ll see you on the other side, And we’ll fly beyond the moon.

Poetry

Romance

Mama Dearest Top 10

Maranda Quinn

5 min read

Tatum woke up to the sound of her alarm, the sun barely peeking through her bedroom curtains. She stretched and sat up, allowing her eyes to adjust. She grabbed her outfit for the school day. After getting dressed, she shuffled over to her vanity mirror, which reflected a girl who looked older than her thirteen years. With long blonde hair, bright emerald eyes, and plump pink lips, Tatum was undeniably beautiful. She brushed her hair and began applying her makeup, enjoying the quiet routine of the morning. As she finished, she admired her reflection, pleased with how she looked. Her room, decorated in various shades of pink, looked like any other teenage girl's space. She smiled to herself, feeling a surge of contentment. Her mom had worked hard to provide for her, especially since her father had bailed on them when Tatum was just a baby. Her life may not have been perfect, but she was loved and well taken care of. And in her eyes, that’s all that mattered. With one final glance around her cozy room, she checked her reflection once more and headed downstairs for breakfast. Suddenly, a loud banging on the front door shattered the peaceful morning. Tatum frowned. They rarely had visitors. "Hm, that’s odd," she thought. "I wonder who that could be." She was halfway down the stairs when she heard a booming voice from outside. "FBI, open up!" Tatum's heart leaped into her throat. She covered her mouth, her pulse quickening. What on earth was the FBI doing at their house? Sally, her mother, appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her face pale. "Shhh!" she mouthed, putting a finger to her lips. She rushed up the stairs, staying as quiet as she could, before grabbing Tatum's hand and ushering her back up the steps. "Mom, what is going on? Why are the cops here?" Tatum asked, her voice trembling. Sally didn’t answer. She dragged Tatum into her bedroom and shoved her into the closet, huddling close to her. Tears streamed down Sally’s face as she held her daughter tightly. "Honey, listen to me really closely. Mama loves you so, so much. Nothing will ever change that." She paused, exhaling deeply as if to compose herself. "You may not see Mama for a while," she continued. "But I promise you, nothing will ever change the fact that I love you with all of my heart." Tatum stared at her mother, confusion and fear battling for dominance. "Mom, please tell me what’s going on. Why are you saying all this?" Before Sally could respond, they heard the front door crash open. Heavy footsteps thudded through the house. Sally began to sob, her grip on Tatum tightening. "Oh God, they’re coming. They’re going to take you from me now. Please don’t be scared. Be strong for Mama. I love you so much, baby girl." The bedroom door was kicked off its hinges, and several agents stormed in, their faces grim. They found Sally and Tatum in the closet. One agent grabbed Sally and yanked her to her feet, forcing her hands behind her back. "Monica Gonzales, you’re under arrest for kidnapping." Tatum's world tilted. "Monica? Who is Monica? Her name is Sally! And Kidnapping? Who did she kidnap?" she cried as her eyes widened in horror. The panicked questions tumbled from her lips – all of which continued to go unanswered. Sally hung her head, her face guilt-ridden and soaked with tears. "I am so sorry. I love you so much," she said as they led her away. Another agent gently helped Tatum out of the closet. "Honey, we have to take you down to the station for some questioning." Tatum shook her head, hot tears and surrealism blurring her vision. "What’s happening? Where are you taking my mom? She didn’t do anything wrong!" she choked, wringing her hands nervously. "She would never kidnap anybody! I’m the only kid she’s ever had, and she’s raised me all on her own! I don’t have anybody else, you can’t take her from me!" The agent avoided her gaze, and Tatum felt a sickening dread settle in the pit of her stomach. Something was terribly wrong, but she couldn’t grasp what it was. At the station, Tatum was led into a small, stark room. She sat at a metal table, her hands trembling. A female detective entered, her expression kind but serious. She had dark hair pulled into a tight bun and sharp, intelligent eyes. "Hi, Tatum. I’m Detective Galonsky," she said, sitting across from her. "I know you’re scared and confused right now, but I need you to listen carefully." Tatum nodded, her throat tight. "What’s going on? Where’s my mom?" she asked softly, wiping her nose with her sleeve. Detective Galonsky took a deep breath, as if mentally preparing for the news she was about to deliver sliding a box of tissues across the table. "Tatum, the woman you know as your mother, Sally, is actually Monica Gonzales. Thirteen years ago, she kidnapped you from a hospital in the United States. Your real name is Samantha Howard. You are the daughter of James and Brenda Howard. Your birth parents have been looking for you ever since." Tatum's mind reeled. She stared at the detective, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She glanced around the small room, as if half expecting someone to jump out laughing and say, “just kidding!” But nobody ever did. Tatum's mouth opened and closed as she struggled to find words. Finally, she mustered a strained whisper. "No, that’s not possible. She’s my mom. She’s always been my mom." "I know this is hard to understand, but Monica—Sally—kidnapped you when you were just a baby. She fled to Canada and created new identities for both of you. Your real parents have never stopped searching for you. For 13 years, they insisted that you were still out there somewhere and they never gave up hope." Tatum shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "No, this can’t be true. She’s my mom. She’s always been my mom." Detective Galonsky reached out, but Tatum recoiled, her eyes blazing with anger. "No! I want to see my mom!" she screamed, her voice choked with fear and desperation. "You people have no idea what you’re talking about! You’ve made a huge mistake!" The detective's face softened, but she didn't back down. "I’m so sorry, Tatum. I know this is a lot to take in. But your parents are on their way here. They’ve never given up hope of finding you." Tatum’s world shattered. She felt like she was falling into a bottomless pit. "This is a nightmare. This is a bad, bad nightmare, and I'm going to wake up any minute," she thought, desperately. But as the news sank in, she knew that it was a harsh reality – one from which there was no escape. Her anger dissipated, replaced by a profound sense of loss. Suddenly, she looked a lot younger than normal. She looked like a lost and broken little girl, a fragile thing sitting across from the detective, as if she might crumble right there in her seat. She clutched at her hair, rocking back and forth, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. "No, no, no! I want my mama! Please! This is a mistake! She’s my mom! She’s always been my mom!" She repeated the words again and again, as if saying them over and over would somehow magically make them true. Detective Galonsky watched, her heart breaking for the young girl. She stepped out of the room and joined a colleague, another female officer with compassionate eyes. "God, this is such a shame," the colleague said. "Poor girl has been a prisoner her entire life." Detective Galonsky sighed deeply, her hazel eyes full of sadness. "Can one even be considered a prisoner if they are unaware of their captivity?"

Crime

YA fiction

The Human Masquerade

Maranda Quinn

1 min read

When dawn becomes a promise dimmed, And starlight fades to ashen skies, We clutch at embers, hope-deprived, Seeking comfort in forgotten lies. We sculpt illusions with precision, Of perfect futures, oh so bright. We turn blind eyes to bad decisions, As truth disintegrates to night. With hearts that yearn for solace sweet, We paint our scars in beauty’s shade, A mask of denial, so bittersweet, Oh, The human masquerade. We chase mirages in the sand, A shimmering escape from turbulent seas, We cross our hearts with trembling hands, To finally put our weary souls at ease. The heart’s a funny thing when Hope is lost, We spin a web of dreams, both false and fair, A wishful thought, not thinking of the cost, To shield ourselves from truths we cannot bear. With tattered wings, we cling to fleeting light, Ignoring whispers of the coming night.

Poetry