Sonnet
The Room I Locked Away from Time
At the very end of the upstairs corridor, where the light gives up and the floorboards grow quiet, there is a door no one notices anymore. It’s plain, swallowed by dust and shadow, its edges blurred into the wallpaper as if the house itself has tried to forget it exists. I rarely walk that far. Still, sometimes—while turning into one of the rooms I still use—I feel my gaze tugged toward it, the way a half-remembered dream tugs at waking thought. The moment never lasts. My eyes tire easily these days, and memory has learned to stay silent.
By LUNA EDITH2 months ago in Poets
Gaps to the Sky
On nights like tonight, the world feels simultaneously immense and intimate. Constellations emerge, careful and deliberate, threading the black canvas above. Branches sway in the winter wind, skeletal and stark, creating gaps through which starlight flickers and dances. The spaces between the limbs, stripped of leaves, are openings to something larger, something beyond my reach — yet perfectly within sight.
By LUNA EDITH2 months ago in Poets
Sundial Sonnets
They say every city keeps one secret rooftop, a place where the noise grows shy and the wind remembers your name. The rooftop garden above Building Forty-Three was such a place. Most people assumed the rusted elevator simply didn’t go that high anymore, but the truth was simpler: the garden didn’t want to be found by anyone who wasn’t ready to slow down.
By LUNA EDITH2 months ago in Poets
