“Harvest of Memory”

I stand between cranes and clouds,

where the horizon bleeds its final confession.

The sun doesn’t set—it spills,

a molten hymn poured through the ribs of the world.

Every silhouette becomes sacred here.

The trees hold their breath like prophets,

their crowns haloed in molten promise,

and even the steel spines of towers bow

to the gospel of light.

I have gathered many things in this life—

names, wounds, faces that flicker and fade—

but tonight, I harvest color.

Not to keep it, but to remember

what it means to burn gently.

Because memory is not stillness;

it’s movement caught mid-prayer—

a crimson arc, a gold whisper,

a thousand unspoken thank-yous

to the day that died beautifully

just to prove it could.

And as the last ember retreats behind the cranes,

I feel the echo settle in my bones:

I am the field,

I am the flame,

I am the harvest of everything

that ever dared to shine.