In the realm where the sun meets the sea,
A tale of nature unfolds, wild and free.
A dance of shadows, a symphony of light,
A canvas painted in hues of day and night.
The whispering wind, a gentle friend,
Carries stories that twist and bend.
In the heart of the forest, where secrets lie,
Under the watchful, endless sky.
The mountains echo with silent song,
Of ancient times, of right and wrong.
The river's journey, so profound,
In its depths, wisdom is found.
A world within a dew-kissed leaf,
A testament to belief.
The moon's soft glow, the stars' embrace,
In every corner, there's a trace.
Of life's sweet rhythm, its ebb and flow,
In every seed that we sow.
A dance of seasons, a timeless art,
A symphony that tugs the heart.
In the quiet, in the roar,
In every grain of sand on the shore.
In the laughter, in the tears,
In the passing of the years.
A tale of nature, wild and free,
Where the sun meets the sea.
A dance of shadows, a symphony of light,
A canvas painted in hues of day and night.
About the Creator
Printique Studios
A poetic journey weaver, I craft verses that paint the canvas of life with hues of dreams and determination. Their words resonate with empowerment, encouraging others to forge their destinies and embrace gratitude.
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More stories from Printique Studios and writers in Poets and other communities.
Work is Life
In the heart of every dawn, when the world still slumbers, there is a rhythm that begins to play. The soft hum of life awakening, a silent symphony of purpose and motion. Work, in its many forms, is not merely a task or an obligation; it is the essence of our existence, the canvas upon which we paint our lives.
By Maribel Golosinoa day ago in Poets
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar2 days ago in Feast
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