In the dance of time, where moments collide,
A symphony of whispers, they confide.
The rhythm of life, a delicate sway,
As we journey through the hours of each day.
We step into existence, a grand stage,
Where dreams and realities engage.
The spotlight shines on our every move,
Revealing secrets we dare not prove.
In the morning's embrace, a new day unfolds,
With possibilities waiting to be told.
Each sunrise holds a promise untold,
As we navigate the stories yet to unfold.
Through seasons of change, we gracefully glide,
Adapting to the tides, side by side.
Like leaves falling from autumn trees,
We surrender to the flow, embracing what it frees.
In laughter and tears, joys and sorrows,
We find the essence of our tomorrows.
For within the depths of our experiences,
Lies the wisdom that shapes our existences.
The passage of time, an eternal waltz,
A dance that encompasses both joy and faults.
In the moments we cherish and the ones we regret,
Time weaves a tapestry we will never forget.
Oh, whispers of time, carry us away,
In your ethereal embrace, let us stay.
Guide us through the labyrinthine trails,
Where the past and future interweave like veils.
And as we twirl in this cosmic ballet,
Let us savor each step along the way.
For in the dance of time, we find our grace,
Leaving footprints of love in every space.
About the Creator
Reynol Brennan
A small blogger who shares emotions, life, life insights, and short stories, and provides everyone with happiness, growth, and common sense of life.
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More stories from Reynol Brennan and writers in Poets and other communities.
We Must Share Our Stories
I used to believe that they would be safe as long as I kept my stories safe in my head. Safe from the world's eyes, from judgment, and from slipping through my fingers and being quickly forgotten. But it was different; stories are not treasures you unearth and hide underground, hoping no one will find and steal them. They are akin to birds – if you don't let them out, they will die, their song erased. When I was younger, I clung to my stories like honeybees locked in jars, their humming perpetual and their light flickering. I would use them to pass the time, to keep myself warm in winter's chill, but I'd never set them free. And in time, I would take them for granted. And they would slip through my fingers. Little by little, the stories would escape, and their colors would dim. The world became dull, the seasons unchanging, and the adventure was less thrilling. Eventually, the stories turned into distant memories. I realized that stories, like the sun, need to shine in the lives of others for them to be as brilliant as they could be. Collect and keep them to yourself; their warmth will eventually run out. This was my mistake and my lesson.
By Owen Belen5 days ago in Poets
Inshallah
Istanbul is a city bristling with life, a place where past and present, sacred and profane, intertwine under the watchful gaze of the Sultan Ahmet Mosque. As I explore this crossroads of cultures with Maya, my nine-year-old niece and the daughter of my late brother-in-law Frank, and my wife Nadia, Frank's sister, I find myself on a journey not just through Istanbul's history, but also into the depths of my own beliefs. Staying with Maya and her mother Elvan, my sister-in-law, I begin to see the city anew through their eyes, and to understand why James Baldwin said it "revived" him.
By Geoffrey Philp 7 days ago in Wander
Comments (1)
Great poem!