Poetry

The Silent Coast

The water held no memory of the wind,
Just the slow, rhythmic pulse of the deep.
We stood where the salt meets the sand,
Watching the horizon drift into sleep.

No words were carried by the tide,
Only the weight of what remains unsaid.
A silver line where the moon might hide,
And the softness of the path ahead.

The Restless Pulse

The iron heart of the city beats,
In rhythm with the rain on stone,
Where every crowded corner meets,
The echo of the soul alone.

Steel and steam, a silver thread,
Woven through the neon light,
By paths where weary giants tread,
Into the deep and industrial night.

The Silent Canvas

A landscape of white,
where shadows play softly,
untouched by the noise of the day.

Lines converge at the edge of thought,
tracing the path of a bird in flight,
lost in the vastness of the open sky.

Here, the breath of the world slows,
finding its rhythm in the stillness,
and the art of being is enough.