When your gaze found mine, the whole world swayed, As if the earth had missed a hidden beat; The sunlight suddenly grew unafraid, Then melted like warm gold around my feet. I tried to look away, but something stayed, A trembling little universe in you; My eyes became two doors I could not close, And every secret seemed to wander through. I felt my cheeks turn roses in the rain, A sudden fire underneath my skin; The stars began to whisper my sweet shame, While little suns kept blooming from within. Your eyes were not just eyes, they were a place, A strange blue room where gravity was gone; I wandered through the silence of your gaze And somehow lost the person I was on. My heartbeat stumbled, then forgot its name, It ran barefoot through corridors of light; I blushed as though the moon had called me beautiful, Then hid my face from heaven's watching sight. The trees leaned closer, jealous of the view, The flowers opened wider just to see; Even the wind became unusually shy, As thoug...
Within the depths of your being
lie the awakened ruins of your own making,
silent consequences stirring
like restless spirits
beneath the soil of memory.
Your deeds were not fleeting shadows.
They were dark imprints
pressed upon the tender spirits
of innocent souls,
souls that carried no armor
against the sharpness of your cruelty.
With hands unburdened by mercy
You carved sorrow into living hearts,
your actions descending
like a merciless blade
through the fragile chambers of trust.
Such wounds do not wither.
They settle deep,
beyond the reach of time,
beyond the mercy of forgetting.
They become echoes
that linger within the marrow of remembrance.
Your cruelty did not merely pass through lives;
It rooted itself
within the quiet gardens of the human heart,
where pain grows slowly
And memory refuses to die.
And so the earth remembers.
For every soul you wounded
became a field you unknowingly tilled.
Every act of malice
was a seed pressed firmly
into the dark soil of consequence.
Now the harvest rises.
Not of peace,
not of forgiveness,
But of the very crop
Your hands once sowed.
Hatred.
A bitter bloom
growing from the ground
Your own cruelty prepared.
For the soil of life is ancient and faithful,
it returns, without error or mercy,
the exact seed
A man chooses to plant.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
Comments