Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
You will reap what you have planted
In the soil you chose to till,
Every field is made by hand
Moved by choice and shaped by will.
Seeds fall softly, watched or not,
Buried deep where time can’t see,
But roots remember every touch,
And grow into what they will be.
A gentle act will rise and bloom,
With fruit that feeds the waiting soul,
A cruel deed hardens into thorns
That cut the hand that sought control.
No harvest comes by accident,
No field escapes the law of grain,
Each deed returns in proper weight,
In joy repeated or in pain.
When that season stands before you,
Heavy with the truth you’ve grown,
Do not cry or curse the sky,
Do not blame the world you’ve known.
For every furrow bears your mark,
Every turn of fate your art,
What you gather comes from seeds
Once released from your own heart.
This is life unbending, true,
A mirror held by time’s design:
You meet the future you created
By the choices once called mine.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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