QuillandInkWhispers

The porch light sings a steady, amber tune, A yellow cage against the thickening night. I am the glass, the filament, the noon Held captive in a small, domestic light. You stand beyond the railing, in the rain, Calling for a match to find your way, Your eyes are fixed on shadows, or on pain, On storm-clouds turning indigo and gray. I am a sun within your reach to hold, A constant fire, quiet and complete, But you are searching for the biting cold, The thunder-crack, the sting of sleet. You cry of darkness while the glow is here, Walking past the door I left ajar, To chase a lightning strike that disappears And call it your only guiding star. I stay behind the pane, a fixed resource, The "always there" that you have learned to ignore. The storm is your religion and your course, While I am just the light beneath the door. I am the noon held captive in the glass, Waiting for a traveler who was scripted to stay lost. © 2026 QuillandInkWhispers, All Rights Reserved

I was once a red rose.     A beautiful, tender bloom,  Before the quiet blue came. Every petal, a graceful flowing scarlet river.   My living green leaves were sharp,  Each vein, a delicate map of sunlight. My roots drank the warm soil,     Before the cold wormed its way in.  Before the chill turned everything to still. He came dressed in flawless powder blue,    Promising gentle air and unassuming shade Of a perfect summer sky. His eyes were two cold, hard, jet black stones,   Reflecting nothing but a long, periwinkle winter. No warmth, no light. Only silent. In their depths, an ink black stain began to swirl.  I saw the truth. A predator waiting for the first wrong move. He wore a mask of a polite elegant smile,   But it was a carefully constructed lie. When he needed something, His voice was a honeyed tone lullaby. Ash blue promises, perfect as a rose,    Yet sharp with hidden thorns. Each word, a drop of cyanide blue venom Tasted like his bitter poisoned kisses. The first