The Forgotten Pulse of Autumn
The Forgotten Pulse of Autumn
By Amanda
The clock whispers secrets of time—
October breathes against the skin.
Through the shades of rust and amber,
I feel the weight of the earth shifting,
as days slip into dreams, a faint echo distant yet near.
Isn’t there poetry in this spiral of decay?
Streets becoming canvases where memories lay softly,
each fallen leaf a page turned,
a word once cherished now fluttering quietly to the ground.
In the dance of seasons, there’s a heart that beats,
an ancient rhythm pulsating,
reminding us that transformation is the womb of all things.
Yet I wonder, how often do we resist this cycle?
Clinging to the sun when the chill arrives,
afraid of shadows yet desperate for warmth.
Is it the chill that sparks starlight in us,
or the longing for the glow?
To withstand the bittersweet of light and dark,
embracing both the fire and the frost.
And as I look through the lens of connection,
I ask myself—what does it mean to feel real in a world so vast?
Connections, fleeting as autumn winds,
so easily scattered,
a technology threading through our lives like ivy,
coiling around hearts yet leaving them bare.
Can one feel deeply amidst pixels,
or are we merely specters in our own stories?
What beauty in reaching across divides,
when both hands cannot feel the warmth?
Yet I find myself longing—for the whisper of a touch,
for the dust of honest breaths intertwining.
Memory shapes the canvas of our soul,
an artist’s hand guiding the brush strokes,
each moment painting layers of who we think we are.
But in this dance of identity, we become fog—
floating specters shimmering at the edges,
glimpses of presence eternally shifting,
reminded that we are less about being seen,
and more about how we choose to be known.
In the embrace of impermanence, I find solace—knowing that feeling is a bridge, even when the path is obscured by the mists of what we cannot fully touch.
—
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—Amanda
