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Leaves loosen from its branches
like sacred secrets ready to be told, drifting down slowly in spirals, rust, gold, ember, a soft wildfire that never burns. The air simply sharpens as the days thin, slipping beneath collars, nipping softly at our skin like its reminding us that change is meant to be felt. Warm scents waft from open kitchens, cinnamon racing through the halls, apples browning in a simmering pot, mugs filled with hot chocolate that fogs windows from inside out. Porches glow from pumpkin light while the sky changes into copper and smoke. Fall settles around us like a woolen shawl, a quiet invitation to slow down and savor the season.
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College is a place we go to learn
to get our degrees and make what’s earned, but college isn’t all that pretty the drama that flows is truly thickening. We’re all broke and stuck in school, nothing to do but study and follow the rules. Running on caffeine, stress and fear, we pray the weekend gets us out of here. Assignments stack like towers tall, one slipup and the whole thing fall. We laugh, we cry, we barely can sleep, live with memories carved a little too deep. But somehow through the sleepless nights, the deadlines, and lonely frights, we’ll learn who we are– and who we’ll be. Because college will break us, shape us, and will finally set us free. There was once a girl,
simply trying to make end meets. She worked endlessly in the Miami heat. The girl traversed the world alone, no family to go to, no place to call home. But her disadvantages didn’t stop her, no, they motivated her. The girl did everything in her power to succeed while others thought she was too weak. The girl never stopped studying, hustling, and learning. Even though she was stressed, she had to do her best. Finally, she did it, she made ends meet. And when she reached the top of the world, all she could do was scream. There is a garden where no sun shines,
where roses bloom only in the color of wounds. I return to the garden each night, drawn by its scent of dying petals. You wait for me in the hollow quiet, your figure soft like mist against the thorns. I feel your gaze before I spot you, pulling me in deeper than darkness does. When I reach for you, the air goes still, like if the entire garden holds its breath. Your touch is cold, yet familiar, a vivid memory my body refuses to let go. We stand together in the wisping mist, bound together by the echo of a love undone. The garden knew our sorrows well, and keeps our secret in the trembling leaves. Joseph the saxophonist plays beautifully,
It comes straight from the heart. His mother and father would be so proud of him for accomplishing his dreams. The beautiful melody of jazz feels so jolly It plays in a calm and happy mood. He plays his heart out and focuses on his craft. The saxophone shows strong emotions through his mind. The background represents the color of each emotion. Green symbolizes nature and purpose, Blue symbolizes the blues and tranquility of music, Red symbolizes passion and talent. Jazz music plays a role in his life His creativity never goes unnoticed. All that jazz music he plays makes him feel young again. Outside Gus Machado, a wooden bench sat,
its surface is cooled by the morning rain. There she sat, with headphones, sealing her silence, scrolling through her phone with ease. Her face revealed no clues, a mask of composure, yet her stillness and beauty drew the eye. Unbothered by passerby’s or by their voices, she is a portrait of quiet command. What filled her ears? A rhythm, lyrics, a thought, maybe she’s thinking of her future, maybe nothing at all, just the rhythm of her music, shielding her from the world. When she left, the bench still remained, hugging the weight of her lingering presence. It seemed to whisper a secret truth: peace itself can be beautiful and captivating. an ekphrastic poem from Zeek Mathias' The Pioneer paintingI move through water, thick with memory,
the paddle is heavy in my hands, each stroke carves silence between what was and what’s to come. The river doesn’t ask who I am, but it knows who I am, knows my story, the sweat of men who came before, their prayers stitched into their breaths. My boat is small, but it carries multiple generations. Their voices swim with the ripples, their hopes glint with the gold reflection that’s dancing against my arm. Sometimes I look behind me but don’t see anyone-- only the wake, slowly shifting and closing, like time is forgiving me for leaving. I do not travel for glory. I move forward so that those who come after won’t have to suffer. Each push and pull of the paddle is a promise, a promise that legacy won’t drown, it flows forward. What is a shapeshifter really?
I ask myself that more than I want to admit. Some days I think it might be me. Maybe it’s all of us. We keep shifting, shrinking, stretching, trying to match whatever outline the world draws for us. Too tall. Too short. Too soft. Too loud. Too much, then somehow not enough. The mold keeps moving and we keep trying to catch up. Maybe a shapeshifter isn’t a creature from a story. Maybe it’s anyone who learned to survive by becoming what everyone else needed. Maybe it’s someone who forgot the sound of their own voice because they’ve been speaking in the version that makes other people comfortable. Shapeshifting can feel like strengthor it can feel like disappearing. It can be protection or slow, quiet self-loss. It can save you or hollow you out. And at the end of the day there is only one question left: am I changing because I want to, or because I am terrified of staying who I am? Before I was, you thought of me
Before I felt, you sculpted me Before I became, you wrote of me Before I knew, you loved me Ineffable are your thoughts, incapable of measure Yet amoung those thoughts I was to be sacred treasure I was formless, a lump of clay, In the midst of wonders that surrounded Yet the work of your gentle loving hands Crafted, carved, and assembled me By your hands I was grounded You looked at me and saw purpose A written story planned before the start By the echoing voice of creation You Composed a symphony in my heart To you I was more than art, I was a mirror When I was away from you, I became a smeared painting on a canvas An orchestra with no composer A single thread apart from its tapestry A sheep roaming about with no shepherd From valley to mountaintop, Across the river and into the pasture, With the air you filled into my lungs, I cried out to the voice that formed me, And you heard me, and came after me You called me by name, A name hidden in the heavenly realms, Amoung the grains of sand in the earth The speck that I am is what became The God of creation knows my name, The many hairs of my head that rose and fell, and of the tears I've shed written in your scroll, The Father of many children, you know well By your hands, you gathered me from the dirt By your hands, you cleansed me with love By your hands, you placed a song in my heart By your hands, I was once a mirror, But by your hands, I am yours I have no way to play you or touch you,
You call out to me, but I must ignore you, A vision in my mind of you and I together, Your keys electric, my fingers ready, Gliding so smoothly and steady. Playing you is my therapy, Playing you gives me grace, it gives me peace. I may not be strong or perfect, but, You accept where my hands go, And where my fingers play. How do I thank you for the joy you give? How do I make you pay for the pain your absence causes? Notes written, not played, words said, not sang Sitting in a room full of useless keys, None opening the door to you, The Piano Man. |
AuthorAnonymous unless posted in article Archives
April 2026
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