QuillandInkWhispers

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

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

Today I found myself lost in thoughts of you. Why am I missing you so much lately? This is madness! This is wrong. I am losing hope  As I wander through shadows of despair. I don’t want to think about these haunting thoughts. I tremble when I think about losing you yet again. Missing you is hurting me deeply once more. It feels as if I’ll never see you again. My anxiety has returned. Where are you? I love you, I need you, I miss you. Why does it have to be this way?  Why did our lives take the wrong path? These endless days and nights longing for Your presence and your love are killing me. Your absence is a shadow, walking through The corridors of my heart.

The office air is thick and cold with the scent of borrowed palms and a sudden, sharp piety. My manager, while sitting at his desk, used his voice like a gavel to strike the afternoon quiet. He asks about my Sunday as if he were checking a box in a manual, then pulls the rug out from under the conversation. “Wait,” he says, with a smile that does not reach his eyes, “I forgot you are not a Christian.” He has known me for years, but he thinks he can read the soil of my heart from across a wooden desk. When I bite back, telling him to point his finger at the ones who truly walk in the dark, he laughs. “Ouch,” he says, throwing my own name back at me like a stone. “Amber is upset already.” He says it to the room, turning my defense into a performance for his audience. Beatrice joins in, her laughter a sound like dry paper tearing, helping him build a cage out of a few cheap words. They want to see the water in my glass shake. They want to prove that my silence is just a thin skin over

Whispers of autumn drift through the air. Colorful leaves, a brief affair spiraling down In a waltz with the breeze. The soft song of nature sung through  The rustling of the trees.

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

Damp earth opens to the light today, Dark and heavy with the scent of old frost. I walk the fence in the early mist, Finding the new green in the dirt. Mossy velvet grips the north side of the oak, A low, green rug for the beetles to climb. Mint-light cuts through the new leaves, Staining the rough bark with a quiet strength. Sharp spears of grass break the asphalt, Drinking the cold rain from a Tuesday sky. Silver ribbons tie the garden to the clouds, Holding the wild world in a tight, wet knot. Nothing is missing; the land is whole. A restless green climbs the stems, And the slow work of the light has just begun. © 2026 QuillandInkWhispers, All Rights Reserved

In vibrant hues, like dreams alight. Happiness captured in every bite. In crystal jars, they dance and twirl at a slow pace. Time turns softly in their sugary embrace. A symphony of colors burst, A cherished taste that quenches thirst.