15 Poetic Reflections: Whispering Tides, Lost Things, and Echoes of Chaos

One

The moon rises with lavender dreams,
newspaper clippings of sorrowed screams,
a whispering tide, an old vinyl hum,
collaged chaos until silence becomes.

Two

"Do I dare disturb the universe?"
The stars say no, the sea disagrees.
"Hope is the thing with feathers,"
but it landed in a tree I can't climb.

Three

The coffee spills over the rim—
black liquid racing to claim the table,
and with it, my morning thoughts,
and the chirp of birds outside,
and the unmade bed calling me back.

Four

The lantern swings low
beneath the cherry blossoms—
its light flickers out.
Still, her stories linger there,
a quiet echo in spring.

Five

Paint splatters on canvas sing
of sunlight breaking through gray clouds,
while a saxophone whispers longing,
its melody splashing color into my ears.

Six

Blossoms, rent bills, a dog’s bark,
mom's call, love's spark,
dented cans of yesterday’s soup—
all tumble into the same basket,
while life hums in the background.

Seven

Shall I compare this chaos to a summer’s day?
Not so kind, nor warm,
but like graffiti scrawled over a masterpiece,
it leaves its own fierce impression.

Eight

"Hurricane tears through the coast—
a storm like no other," they say.
But it’s the aftermath,
the silent reshaping of lives,
that whispers loudest.

Nine

O n
the sun shines
o n a ll

Ten

The forest breathes
in whispers of green,
while machines hum a dirge
on the outskirts,
turning roots to ash.

Eleven

The cat stretches
on sunlit hardwood,
each paw a lazy prayer.

Twelve

Things I lost this year:
A red scarf,
my patience for waiting in line,
the sound of my mother’s laugh,
a single sock.

Thirteen

"I am the master of my fate,
I sing the body electric.
Hope is the thing with feathers,
and miles to go before I sleep."

Fourteen

Within the moonlit hush of ancient trees,
I hear the hum of earth, the silent hymn,
a tale that blends the rustling leaves with seas,
and blurs the edges of its timeless rim.

Fifteen

What if the bird doesn’t come back?
The nest looks so empty,
but maybe empty things aren’t bad,
just spaces waiting to be filled,
like this room, this mind,
the words I can’t say to you.

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