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Maryann I Apr 16
your breath is sunlight melting frost on my skin,
your silence—moonlight in a velvet sky,
quiet, yet immense,
a hush that makes the world listen.


i wandered through golden fields,
barefoot in the hush of morning,
dew-kissed and drowsy,
where clouds drift like old lullabies—
and you,
you were waiting at the edge of dusk,
painted in indigo.

we don’t chase,
we revolve.

a soft orbit,
sunrise in your laughter,
midnight in my gaze.
we meet in the in-between—
horizon-blue, dream-drenched,
the hush of stars watching.

your warmth never scorches,
your cool never chills.
just balance.
just breath.
just
us.
  Apr 16 Maryann I
Mrs Timetable
Can I
Live
In your
Moment?
I want to
Learn
Focus on my now
Learning to live in the moment
  Apr 16 Maryann I
aAr
"what will they think?"- the
thought i had the most in my
entire existence.
Maryann I Apr 15
Tick-tock, tick-tock, the hands sweep, slow and grand,
Echoes in brass, the hourglass of time,
Each second a sonnet, each minute a memory,
A pendulum sways with the weight of all things,
A whispered sigh, the rhythm of fate.

Tick-tick, tick-tick, the seconds fly,
A thousand moments, one fleeting chime,
The wood creaks softly, a song to the past,
Time, both heavy and light, spins ever last.

Tick-tick, tick-tick, a muted hum,
The dance of the hands, a battle won,
Through the quiet of night, and the light of day,
We march to the beat, come what may.

Tick, tick, a whisper,
A pulse, a pause,
We chase after moments,
Only to lose them.

Tick.

        Tock.

Tick…
(old draft)
Maryann I Apr 15
The world begins in whispers,
a hush of dew across the blades,
soft-footed clouds curling above
a sky too shy to burn.

Dandelions hold their breath,
drifting wishes in golden pause,
while robins hum lullabies
to the waking hush of trees.

In this untouched hour,
the wind plays only gentle games,
skipping stones across the lake,
never daring to ripple the still.

There is no urgency here,
only the quiet kindness of time,
the sleepy smiles of sunbeams,
and the innocence of the world
before it remembers to rush.

Maryann I Apr 15
The sky split
like an old wound—
bleeding rust into the morning,
the sun a swollen blister
peeling over charred hills.

Crows forgot how to scream.
Smoke stitched the air
with ghost-thread,
and time slumped forward,
dragging its feet through bone dust.


We learned silence
was not peace,
but a lull before the rot—
cities swallowed whole
like old regrets,
steel ribs poking from earth
like the remains of some god
we failed to worship right.

Rain came
black and sour,
tasting of copper and grief.

The trees bent
as if praying,
but no one listened.

Even the stars
flickered out
like breath on glass.

Hope was a flickering radio,
a child humming to static,

a name whispered
to a grave that never answered.

We were the last psalm
sung into a ruined cathedral,
echoes crumbling

on their way out.

And still—
beneath the ash,
something small and stubborn
twitches.

Not life.
Not yet.
But maybe.
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