Trust is like a rose,

Soft petals, thorns sharp and cold,

Beauty wrapped in pain....

The windows watch with eyes of shattered glass,
Each room still whispers names in broken tone.
This house remembers all that came to pass.

Its paint is peeled like time too long amassed,
Its porch still creaks though now it stands alone.
The windows watch with eyes of shattered glass.

A swing sways slowly in the tangled grass,
A ghost of laughter etched in weathered stone.
This house remembers all...

**January** wakes in a hush of white,
A breath held tight in the arms of night.
Resolutions bloom in the frost-bit air,
Hope tucked in scarves, whispered like prayer.

**February** hums in a shorter song,
A flicker of flame that doesn't last long.
Love in paper hearts and cold red cheeks,
Winter's last word before spring softly speaks.

**March** is a tug-of-war sky,
Snowflakes falling where green s...

Let it fall—
the sky unfastening its grief,
drop by drop,
onto the shoulders of the earth.

Cleansing isn’t always soft.
Sometimes it scrubs with salt,
peels you down
to what the pain left shining.

The river knows.
It doesn’t cling to what it carries—
it holds, it moves,
it lets go.

So let the storm come.
Let the winds unmake you
so you can gather yourself again,
cleaner, clearer,
a little more tru...

Once, we sat with nothing—
just the ceiling and our thoughts,
watching shadows stretch across the wall
like they had somewhere to be.

We let time drip slow,
a faucet not quite closed,
minutes pooling into hours
with nowhere urgent to go.

We lay in fields naming clouds,
not because it meant something,
but because it didn’t.
Because a dragon turning into a ship
was reason enough to stay.

We doodled ...

They rise before the sun speaks,

threading sky with feathered songs—

free without ever fleeing....

Light is not just brightness—
it is a breath
that moves through the dark,
a whisper spoken in waves
across the silence of space.

It bends
not to break,
but to wrap itself around corners,
spilling into rooms
where hope forgot the door.

Born from stars,
light travels like memory—
ancient, untouchable,
yet always arriving
right when we need it most.

It dances on water,
sleeps in fire,
folds itself in...

They called it the Forest of Whispers—where the trees leaned in like eavesdropping gods, and the wind murmured secrets too ancient for most to understand. But the girl in red didn’t fear it. Her name was Liora, and she had always felt more at home among silence and shadows than noise and people.

This path, though—it wasn’t there yesterday.

It began at the edge of her village, a ribbon of red earth...