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they say
you are nothing,
a shadow fading away,
unseen, unheard,
lost in the noise.
you are insignificant.

but they are liars
you are everything.
a light that shines bright,
seen, heard,
found in the quiet.
you are significant.
not a reverse poem
Autumn Blaze

We dug the hole one quiet fall,
The leaves around us red and small.
A sapling slight, with roots still bare,
We gave it space, we gave it care.

Autumn Blaze, its name be true,
A fire that someday might break through.
We watched it lean, then helped its stand,
As winds moved strongly across our land.

Now look—it towers, bold and wide,
Its branches stretching toward the sky.
While others stall or wither in place,
Ours climbed with calm and patient grace.

It wasn’t just the sun and rain,
But hands that worked through joy and strain.
Like marriage, like a love once bright,
It rose because we did it right.

But love’s not just what’s built and grown—
It’s what you keep, and nurture, and own.
And somewhere in the in-between,
We lost the roots once so serene.

The tree still thrives, tall as a prayer,
While silence lingers in the air.
And I can’t help but see the cost—
Of something strong that still was lost.

We could have trimmed, we could have healed,
We could’ve fought, we could’ve kneeled.
Like tending bark or guarding flame,
Love asks for more than just a name.

So now that tree, it holds my gaze—
A monument to better days.
To what can grow and still be gone—
A blaze that burned, and then moved on.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved
#lostlove #tragic #brokenfamily #whatcouldhavebeen #regret #guilt #sadness #wonder
 Apr 26 Bekah Halle
Tyler
a day
 Apr 26 Bekah Halle
Tyler
lover in the grass
looking up at the tree
wonders what it means
for them to be free

Sky.
I love that name.
She giggles bubbles
from her breast,
she's a toe slug,
a kitty named Dog.

I wanna go on a trip with you,
sell plants by the highway.
carry mischief,
Kerry Feather.
golden flower,
golden head hair.

loose pants,
silky rayon.
She lies on
her stomach,
we're a
blanket picnic.
They still carry love,
from lives once lived,
walking paths with
belief in destiny.

Their love so surreal,
kissed by every wound.

She cloaked in petals,
with a bleeding heart.

Just as tree waits
for spring to bloom,
he waits for her,
to heal him.
'Love is immortal'
An eternal love between her and her past lover, waiting to entwine again.
 Apr 26 Bekah Halle
Dirt
Little bird,
Your cage is not of my making.
Little bird,
I see the weight you carry, silent, unseen.
Little bird,
My hand is open, only if you wish to land.
Little bird,
I promise not to squeeze too tight.
Little bird,
I'd never clip your wings.
Little bird,
I’d never take your sky from you.
Little bird,
Let me build you shelter, not a cage.
Little bird,
I’ll walk beside you, not ahead.
Little bird,
I ask for nothing, only that you know,
Little bird,
You are free, even here with me.
 Apr 26 Bekah Halle
F Elliot
In the wounds of woman and the steadfastness of man,
   Eden remembers.



Movement One: The Celebration of the Wound

He does not bring the scalpel
because he despises her wound..
   he brings it

because he loves her glory too much
to leave it buried beneath the scar.

He does not cut her to own her.
He cuts her, trembling,
because he believes in what will rise
when the old blood runs clean.

It is not an act of violence.
It is an offering of celebration—
the highest kind of self-love,
the boldest kind of faith—
to believe that the Lord Himself
will bend over the wound
and pour His living water
into the brokenness.

And as the wound opens,
and the darkness spills out,
he does not recoil.
He does not rescue.
He does not preach.

He watches.
He prays.
He stands.

And when she rises,
washed and radiant,
he knows:
her rising demands his own.

There is no longer room
for smallness in him.
No longer space
for hidden shadows to cling.

For her glory will call forth his.
And his celebration of her healing
will tear open the last vestiges of his shame,
until his own light sings back to hers,
undiminished, unafraid.

This was never a conquest.
It was always a coronation.
It was always the Gospel written in flesh.

It was always love.

---

Movement Two: Standing in the Breach

He stands now,
at the trembling edge
where blood and water meet spirit.

He does not flinch at her unraveling.
He does not cover her nakedness in shame.
He does not grasp at her breaking,
nor reach to hasten her healing.

He stands.

A living shield.
A silent witness.
A priest without altar or knife.

He understands:
his strength is not proven
by his power to fix—
but by his power to wait.

To watch as Love Himself
tends the wound,
cradles the scar,
renews the soul.

To endure the terror of powerlessness
without collapsing into control.

This—
this is his glory:
that he can behold her agony,
and still believe
that the end of her suffering
will not be death,
but birth.

That the light swelling beneath her skin
will one day eclipse even the memory of the blade.

And in that waiting,
he too is cut open.

He too is pierced by the same water,
the same fire,
the same song of new creation.

And he knows:
only a man who can stand silently in the breach,
bearing her vulnerability without corrupting it,
is worthy to walk beside the woman
reborn by the touch of the Living God.

He does not steal her resurrection.
He bears it.

He does not name her rising.
He joins it.

---

Movement Three: The Ascension of Two

They do not walk out of the garden
as they once did—
naked and ashamed,
separated by fear,
carrying fig leaves sewn from survival.

They rise now
fully clothed in light—
not light borrowed,
not light stolen,
but light born from wounds
washed clean in sacred water.

She stands,
not above him,
not behind him,
but beside—

her beauty no longer weaponized,
her tenderness no longer bartered.

And he—
he no longer hides behind strength,
no longer confuses sacrifice with silence,
no longer fears her radiance
as a threat to his crown.

They do not complete one another.
They honor what was completed
before time ever breathed.

She holds the memory of Eden.
He bears the ache of its return.

And together—
they offer the altar of their becoming
to the One who formed them both.

This is not romance.
This is restoration.

This is not power.
This is presence.

This is the kind of union
that does not dim under pressure,
does not wither under attention,
does not fracture when seen.

It is the kind
that makes the darkness jealous.

Because when man and woman
stand in full light together,
wounds lanced,
glory rising—
the Garden itself begins
to hum with memory..

And God walks there once more.


This work was formed directly from the living current of four earlier poems, drawn from a journey spanning years of love, loss, battle, and breath. Each poem served as a remembered stone in the rebuilding of the sacred architecture of love between man and woman.

> Referenced works:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4199674/meeting-sarayu/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4149690/entrances/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4077203/perspective/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4275826/gloria-in-excelsis/


These poems are not mere references. They are the waters from which this offering has emerged.
There are things
I did not do.

I did not  touch
you.  

You
died. Without
a sound.

Your soft brown eyes pierced me.
I saw you go in the quiet
way you did everything.
I knew you were gone
but not before I
knew sadly, silently
that
I
could not hold
you in a final

embrace.

Closeness had run out
so long ago,

though we loved until the end,

bereft of speech,
as we we were bereft of
touch.

I bowed to your
blank stare.

I would have died for
you if I could have.  

but I could not
save you from
this destiny

with the Father

Who

Loved

you



Caroline Shank
2.2,2023
"I'll quit tomorrow"
Say once again
I spoke those words yesterday too
Would take the easy route out of this
No shortcuts in Hell-I must go through
An excuse not to surfaces
Legitimate or not
Before I know it repeating mistakes
Hit after hit
Shot after shot
Of the places I've visited
Don't think I have ever reached one quite so low
Seeking whatever fleeting remedy
Leaves the least room to grow
You've got to wonder why I make these decisions
Swearing that "this time" I'm done
Got my back pressed against a concrete slab
Simply isn't anywhere else to run
Maybe I have gotten used to the fire
Been so long since my universe went up in flames
May be difficult to see through the smoke
At least that way there's a scapegoat to blame
I cannot claim I don't know any better
After two or three times learned getting sick
Regardless how many nights spent fighting withdrawals
Sobriety never seems to stick
Maybe I should give up on this battle
Surrender war and wave a flag of white
Let demons have their way with my soul
Accept that I'll never be alright
I am exhausted sprinting in circles
Find myself in the exact same place
Watching world spin around me so fast
While own life I only waste
Just the same old ****
 Apr 22 Bekah Halle
Breann
I wanted to speak,
to tear through the lies.
But He was there—
He saw through their eyes.

So I stayed quiet,
though it broke me in two.
Sometimes the loudest defense
is knowing He knew.
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