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Keegan 4d
Fog
Through silver mist, my paddle dips,
A gentle glide where silence slips,
My canoe whispers secrets to the lake
Chasing echoes your ghostly wake.

Veiled in fog, my path unclear,
Yet drawn forward, I feel you near.
Each Paddle a question softly cast,
Through waters calm, beyond the past.

Your presence, magic woven thin,
Guides my heart, this trance I'm in.
The pond breathes slow beneath my hand,
Pulling gently toward unknown land.

I chase the shadow of your glow,
Where lilies dream and whispers flow.
Through misty worlds my soul aligns
In fog, your memory intertwines.

No rush, just peace, a calm embrace,
I paddle toward your gentle trace.
The mystery holds no fear for me,
For in this fog, you're all I see.

Beneath the hush, I'm safely led,
By ghostly trails your spirit’s shed.
Keegan 6d
I stand at the edge of memory's clearing,
watching my childhood home consumed
by flame, by the cruel erosion of time,
each beam of laughter crackling,
each wall of safety collapsing inward
like a prayer spoken backwards.

The wildfire sweeps through everything:
Saturday mornings thick with pancake steam,
the way sunlight used to pool
in the corner where I built my kingdoms
from cardboard boxes and infinite dreams.

I am paralyzed, a child again,
hands pressed against invisible glass,
screaming at the inferno
that devours the sanctuary I called home.

Smoke fills my lungs with the bitter taste
of all I cannot save:
the creaking floorboard that announced my midnight wanderings,
the kitchen table scarred with homework tears
and birthday cake celebrations.

But listen
in the crackling of loss,
in the hiss of vanishing,
something else stirs.

From the white-hot core of grief,
wings unfurl like broken prayers
learning to fly again.
I am the ember that refused to die,
the stubborn spark,
to the hungry flames of forgetting.

What rises from these ashes
is not the home I lost
it is me, transformed,
carrying the warmth of every moment
that mattered enough to burn eternal,
my heart a furnace where love
learned to make itself immortal.

The phoenix knows this truth:
some things must be consumed
before they can become holy,
before they can learn to soar
on wings made of everything
we thought we'd lost forever.

I am both the fire and the rising,
both the child who watched it burn
and the child who learned to fly.
Keegan 7d
I press my palm against the bark of ancient oak
and feel the pulse of centuries I'll never know
each ring a secret whispered in the dark,
each leaf a letter written in a language
that dies before I learn to read it.

The sky bleeds gold at evening's edge,
and I am small beneath its vastness,
a child with cupped hands
trying to catch the ocean.
Light travels ninety-three million miles
just to break against my retina,
for reasons I cannot name.

Why must we ache for answers
that crumble like autumn leaves
the moment we think we've grasped them?

I watch a sparrow build a nest
with such fierce certainty,
while I armed with all my questions,
all my telescopes and theories
still cannot fathom
why my heart beats
in rhythm with the tides,
why my breath follows
the same ancient pattern
as wind through wheat.

There is a mathematics to mourning,
a physics to the way grief bends light,
but no equation for the way
morning glory vines
know exactly when to open,
or why their purple faces
look like prayers.

I am haunted by the elegance
of things I'll never understand:
how photons dance themselves
into the green of summer grass,
how my grandmother's eyes
still live in mine.

The universe keeps its counsel
while dropping breadcrumbs
of beauty at our feet
a cardinal's call at dawn,
the perfect spiral of a shell,
the way rain sounds different
on every kind of pain.

We are archaeologists of wonder,
digging through the layers
of what we think we know,
only to find beneath each answer
ten thousand more questions,
each one more tender
than the last.

And maybe that's the point
not to solve the mystery
but to be worthy of it,
to let it break us open
again and again
until we are nothing
but grateful light
scattered across
the infinite dark.
Keegan Jul 15
All my dreams feel real.
So vivid, so precise,
I cannot tell
whether I am waking,
or wandering through some secret doorway.

Everything is perfect,
one to one,
every color the exact hue it should be,
every shadow falling just as it does
in the world I call my own.

It’s like Inception,
where I can’t tell what’s real
and you’re still here,
and everything is perfect.
I hold onto it because I want to believe
this is the world we belong to.

Sometimes,
even within the dream,
I ask myself aloud:
Is this real?
Am I dreaming?
And some soft voice,
sometimes mine, sometimes not,
answers quietly:
Does it matter?

Because in those moments,
the sky holds its breath for me.
The ground feels no different beneath my feet.
The faces I meet
smile as if they’ve known me always.

But toward the end,
when the dream begins to unravel,
the walls grow thin,
and I feel it slipping
all of it
you, the light, the warmth.
I lose everything.
And somehow it hurts even more
when I wake up

I wake
carrying fragments
a street I’ve never walked,
a scent that fades too fast,
the echo of my own voice
saying things I didn’t know I needed to hear.

What is real, after all,
but the places our hearts linger,
and the worlds we can’t quite leave behind
when morning comes.
#dream #love #loss #missing #miss #loved #loss #grief
Keegan Jul 14
When I imagine the future,
the life I am shaping slowly,
with hands patient as earth and time,
I dream not of grandeur,
but of something tender:

Of sitting beneath a willow tree in the hush of autumn
leaves trembling like small prayers before they fall,
the air steeped in gold and quiet.
A notebook open in my lap,
ink flowing like breath turned visible.

I picture painting without perfection,
colors bleeding softly into one another,
or reading words that do not demand solving
only feeling.
Only wonder.

The breeze threads itself through my hair
with the gentleness of old love,
and the sun lowers itself with reverence,
laying its tired light upon the horizon’s tender curve.

In this dream I am lifted by nothing but presence,
the hum of creation moving quietly through my veins,
rooted wholly in what I know is sacred:

That I am no longer running.
Not from sorrow, not from longing,
not from the aching tenderness of simply being alive.

Instead, I am living
whole, unfinished, at peace.
And in that soft, unhurried hour beneath the willow tree,
this life I have found,
is finally enough.
More than enough.
Keegan Jul 14
Sometimes I sit and stare into the sky
and wonder:
Does anything ever truly last,
or do all things leave quietly
with the changing seasons?

I look to the clouds with gratitude
because I know one day
I won’t be able to see them again.

There’s a tenderness in their passing.
A softness in knowing
that beauty visits briefly,
then disappears like breath into air.

I sometimes find myself
caught between wonder and distance
watching something magical
while dissociating in my own mind,
aware, even as it unfolds,
that I may never feel this exact moment again.

That thought makes things sharper.
Makes them more fragile, more precious.
I don’t hold them tighter.
I just watch.
And let them pass through me
like light through glass,
leaving a trace,
but never staying.

Maybe that’s what it means to live:
to witness beauty,
to feel the ache of its leaving,
and to still look up at the sky,
thankful for what remains.
Keegan Jul 14
Smoke me into your lungs.
Breathe me in slow,
as if you’re savoring
something dangerous
but necessary.

Let me flow through you,
your chest,
your bloodstream,
your thoughts
until I reach your brain
and settle there,
quietly unraveling the edges
of what you thought you knew.

Let me blur your vision,
soften the sharp parts
until all that’s left
is warmth and ache.

Let me live beneath your skin,
humming low,
like a secret you keep
but never tell.

Exhale me,
and I’ll still linger
in the spaces between breaths,
in the soft hush
before sleep.

I don’t want to be forgotten.
I want to be felt.
Like smoke that leaves its trace
long after the fire is gone.
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