Dark & Indiscernible
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♫ Fly on ♫ - Cold Play
What the Last Evening Will Be Like
by Edward Hirsch
You're sitting at a small bay window
in an empty café by the sea.
It's nightfall, and the owner is locking up,
though you're still hunched over the radiator,
which is slowly losing warmth.
Now you're walking down to the shore
to watch the last blues fading on the waves.
You've lived in small houses, tight spaces—
the walls around you kept closing in—
but the sea and the sky were also yours.
No one else is around to drink with you
from the watery fog, shadowy depths.
You're alone with the whirling cosmos.
Goodbye, love, far away, in a warm place.
Night is endless here, silence infinite.
____________________
♫ Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) ♫ - Eurythmics
Reflection
by A.S.
Your kindness reflects,
the hospitality of your soul,
on the surface of the waves.
Your silence reflects,
the loudness of your mind,
in the echoes of the room.
Your voice reflects,
the honesty of your heart,
in the whispers to my ear.
Your positivity reflects,
the clarity of your thoughts,
flowing in your mind.
Your kiss reflects,
the gentleness of your touch,
leaving an impression in my soul.
♫ Nobody Knows ♫ - The Lumineers
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A gift to the 2.5+ million lost to COVID-19 and their families who struggle each day to look "through the darkness to the dawn."
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When Great Trees Fall
by Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
No reins between us,
no bit, no command—
only the slow exchange of breath
where your skin thins to heat.
Your eye, a dark well
holding sky, holding field,
holding the long memory of running
I will never know.
I do not ask you to carry me.
You do not ask me to lead.
We meet in the small kingdom
made of pulse and warmth,
where strength lowers its head
and finds,
not mastery—
but rest.
~Unknown~
This photograph is part of my conceptual project called " Home-Made Macro". Inspired by the different images you can create by taking close-ups. These are plastic cubes from a board game.
She closes her eyes
not to sleep
but to listen
somewhere inside
a garden is rehearsing
its colors
roses test their softness
against her cheek
small blossoms gather
like thoughts
she has not spoken
nothing moves
yet everything is growing
her breath
a slow opening
her shoulders
a place for light to land
if she remains still
long enough
the flowers will finish
becoming her.
~Unknown~
She does not wear gold,
nor jewels mined from the dark of the earth—
only petals, soft and breathing,
woven by unseen hands of spring.
Around her,
small heartbeats gather.
Whiskered dreams curl against her cheeks,
milk-warm bodies sighing
into the hush of her stillness.
Their fur catches the amber light
like drifting pollen.
She is not guarded—
she is trusted.
And in the quiet woodland glow,
where leaves bow in shadow,
love arranges itself
in a perfect circle.
~By Elowen Mirelle~
Her cheek rests upon folded arms,
as if she is holding herself together.
The world has gone dim and distant,
softened into shades of blue.
A luminous visitor settles at her shoulder —
not heavy enough to burden,
not bright enough to blind.
Just enough
to remind her
that even in silence,
something glows.
~Poem by Arin Vale~
She is framed by fire—
a couture halo of molten petals
cut like silk in motion.
Eyes closed,
skin lit in bronze hush,
she wears stillness
as if it were jewelry.
Roses nest in her dark hair,
echoing the larger bloom—
a study in repetition,
in restraint,
in heat held just beneath the surface.
Not a woman in a flower,
but a woman becoming one:
editorial, eternal,
softly untouchable.
~Unknown~
Snow falls without choosing a side.
Each flake lands
and vanishes into the same white silence.
She stands where the forest forgets its name,
breath a pale ribbon
unspooling toward the dark.
The bow is warm from her hand.
The arrow waits—
feather against her cheek,
a quiet question.
No drum, no banner,
only the slow turning of the night
and the small animal sound
of her heartbeat.
She has measured the distance
not in paces
but in winters survived.
Ice holds to her lashes.
A strand of hair, frozen,
points the way forward
more faithfully than any star.
When she releases,
it will not be anger
that flies from her fingers
but a line of stillness,
straight as memory,
sharp as mercy.
Until then
the world balances
on the drawn string—
snow falling,
breath held,
time listening.
~Unknown~
She gathers the torn pages
of herself from the dirt,
fits fold to fold
until the shape remembers sky.
Light seeps through the seams—
not enough to dazzle,
just enough to see.
Her wings open,
creased but holding.
When she rises
it is not escape
but return.
~Arisa Kiko~
I rode into the valley
certain you would be waiting—
somewhere between the red
and the fog.
The horse slowed on its own,
as if it knew
this was the place
we once named forever.
The flowers leaned toward me
like listeners.
Even the mountains
seemed to hold their breath.
I kept one hand
where yours used to rest
at the small of my back—
habit, or prayer.
Love, I am still arriving.
Love, I am still
your direction.
~By Ada Limón~
Petals in warm air—
no wind, and yet they travel,
as if remembering
a tree that has already let them go.
She stands within that memory,
eyes closed,
holding the same pause
as a pond before a ripple.
Spring does not hurry her.
A bird calls once
and decides against a second note.
Light rests on her shoulder;
it could be morning,
it could be years.
Not blossom, not falling—
the moment between
when even the branch
forgets its weight.
If she were to move
the season would choose a direction,
but she keeps the world
balanced on a breath.
Petals drift past her cheek
without landing,
as though they know
she has not become
someone who can be touched.
~Unknown~
The sky falls softly—ash of clouds,
each flake a forgotten age.
Her spear points toward a horizon
that has never known a name.
The beast remembers glaciers,
she remembers fire,
together they walk
the thin edge of survival.
~Unknown~
In a room where time forgets to breathe,
they sit like a portrait painted by candlelight—
gold gathering in the folds of silk,
shadow stitched into every glance.
His hand rests on the quiet authority of the cane,
a metronome for unspoken histories.
Her stillness is not silence
but a language of lace and patience,
where every thread remembers a promise.
Between them—
not distance,
but a velvet pause,
the kind that holds a lifetime
in the space between heartbeats.
They are not posing for the world;
the world has stepped in softly
and closed the door behind them.
~Unknown~
She sits inside a cradle of stars,
midnight folded in her sleeves,
a quiet galaxy resting
in the hush of her hands.
Silver blossoms in her hair
glow like patient constellations,
while the veil behind her drifts—
a nebula dreaming of silk.
She does not seek the heavens;
they gather to her stillness,
drawn to the gravity
of her lowered gaze.
In her calm,
night becomes velvet,
and infinity
learns how to breathe.
~Arisa Kiko~
Brass in her hands,
a hush in her eyes—
the song begins
where the evening sighs.
Feathers and light,
a slow-burning glow,
she plays what the heart
doesn’t dare to show.
~Unknown~
Between shadow and bloom, she exhales.
The dark petals part without sound,
offering her upward—
a quiet coronation of warmth.
Her lips glow with borrowed dawn,
eyes tracing something just beyond touch.
She is becoming
what the flowers were waiting for.
by Noémie Calder
"Meditation allows us to deal with life as it is rather than looking at it and comparing it with how we think it's supposed to be."
~Jeff Kober~
At first
you were two shadows
moving separately—
one watching from the doorway,
one folded into the far corner
like a question.
I learned your different silences:
the cautious one
who counted every step,
the braver one
who blinked slowly
but would not come close.
I spoke in rituals instead of words—
two bowls placed gently,
water changed like a promise,
my hands resting open
on my knees
so they would mean no harm.
Days gathered softly.
One of you
claimed the chair beside me,
tail wrapped tight
around your own small courage.
The other
took longer—
a constellation of blue eyes
studying the map of my breathing.
Then, one evening,
as lamplight settled into fur,
trust arrived in pairs:
a weight on my lap,
a second warmth against my arm,
two quiet engines
beginning at once.
Your purring
braided the air between us,
a sound like thread
pulling three lives
into the same small circle.
Now you sleep
without keeping watch,
and I understand
that friendship with cats
is a room we build slowly—
bowl by bowl,
breath by breath—
until even fear
lies down
and closes its eyes.
~Arisa Kiko~
The wind writes its name across my face,
a language made of ice and distance.
Snow gathers in the hollow of my collar
like quiet questions.
Above me the sky loosens green fire,
a slow river of light
that does not warm
but remembers warmth.
I open my mouth to the cold
and the cold enters me—
not as pain,
but as a vast, bright silence.
Somewhere beneath the drifts
the earth is still breathing,
and I borrow that breath,
briefly,
before it returns to the dark.
~Unknown~
“What you feel around elephants is not fear, but an overwhelming sense of calm—of being in the presence of something ancient and kind.”
~Mark Shand~
War crowns her where flesh once knelt—
gold thorns in night-black hair,
a bridal red turned battle-banner
across a chest that does not rise.
Her face is the promise of endings,
hollow eyes drinking the storm,
three blood marks burning like a vow
no priest would dare to bless.
Steel sings in both her hands,
twin moons wet with memory,
while behind her the dead stand patient,
armor stitched to bone and oath.
Ash turns like falling petals,
time breaks on her unmoving stance;
even the living wind hesitates
to touch what will not die.
She is command without a voice,
marriage of blade and silence—
a field awaiting her gesture
to learn the shape of ruin.
~Unknown~
Two breaths meet
between thunder and harvest,
his hand a shelter at her spine,
hers a quiet vow against his chest.
The field leans in to listen
as if love were a rumor
the earth had been waiting to confirm.
~by Elinor Vale~
In autumn’s dying cathedral of stone,
Where ivy clings to fallen crowns,
She lifts her arm like a vow unspoken,
And the hawk answers.
Not with noise—
But with trust.
Feathers tremble against the dusk,
Eyes mirror eyes—
Predator and guardian,
Bound not by chain
But by understanding.
Her beauty is not softness alone.
It is forged—
Like the blade half-buried behind her,
Like the shield weathered by time.
She does not chase the sky.
She releases it.
And when the falcon flies,
It carries her spirit in its wings—
Fierce, faithful,
Unbroken by the ruins
That failed to break her.
~by Rowan Ashvale~
In the hush between heartbeats
they meet—
breath mingling like mist on steel.
His war is quieted
by the softness of her hands,
her pulse a lantern in the dark.
No kingdom, no crown,
only this fragile truce of lips
where time forgets to move.
The sword at his back sleeps,
and in its place
love keeps watch.
~Unknown~
I entered the blue
as one enters a chapel—
quietly,
with nothing to ask.
Your vast body
moved through the water
like a slow hymn.
I lifted my hand
only to learn
how small a prayer can be.
Your jaw met my palm—
scarred, gentle,
older than any word
I have ever spoken.
My red dress
a brief flame
in the long cathedral
of your breathing.
You passed,
and the light closed behind you,
leaving me
with empty hands
and a full heart,
certain that holiness lives
in what we do not keep.
~By Mary Oliver~
Fear does not live here.
Only smoke, silk, and memory.
The dragon’s body is a boundary
no blade can cross.
Its eye never leaves the horizon.
She looks forward, calm as dawn,
because behind her
stands the reason she survives.
Some bonds are forged in fire.
Some are older than words.
This one does not break.
~by Kaori Sato~
"Betrayal doesn't depend on how or how much you love someone. It depends on the magnitude of the dilemma before you."
~Berlin~
I sat in borrowed silence,
breath counting the fading light,
palms open to nothing—
trying to be a mountain.
The room held its gentle order:
wood, fire, evening sky,
the slow orange hush of peace
settling over everything.
And then—
soft paws, a curious weight,
a whiskered question
tugging at a loose strand of thought.
You were not a lesson,
not a koan,
not the path to enlightenment—
only a small, foolish creature
who refused to let the world
become too serious.
I remember the warmth of you,
the way stillness bent around play,
how my almost-annoyance
broke into a hidden smile.
Now when I close my eyes
the room returns,
the sunset breathes again,
and somewhere in that quiet
a phantom paw reaches up—
reminding me
that peace was never
the absence of interruption,
but the sound of a silly cat
refusing to be forgotten.
~Arisa Kiko~
In a chamber where the candles dare not breathe,
She stands—
pale as first moonlight on winter stone.
Black silk rivers from her shoulders,
shadow woven into flesh,
while a crimson sigil burns softly
between thought and destiny.
Around her, iron hands hover—
talons of silver,
ceremonial and cold.
They do not wound.
They prepare.
A mask lowers in the dark behind her,
a whisper of steel on steel,
as if night itself were fastening
its claim.
She does not tremble.
Her lips part not in fear
but in surrender to becoming.
Soft skin against sharpened metal—
vulnerability
learning the language of armor.
And in that hush between touch and transformation,
she is neither captive nor queen—
but something forged
in silence.
~by Seraphine Vale~
Crimson blooms in the dark around her,
petals drifting like quiet embers.
Horned and crowned with midnight,
she stands—
a stillness older than fear.
Her eyes burn softly,
branches of red beneath porcelain calm,
while gold and bone
grow into armor and spine.
Not monster, not queen—
but the hush of a forest
holding its breath
before her name.
~Arisa Kiko~
Through some relational turmoil years back an idea of how to portray the view of drowning from above, yet connected to it, and at the same time lend a mild feeling of that experience without actually , of course, drowning. Mid turmoil felt exactly that way for a while.
Feel free to write what you feel when you look at it. For me, my throat tightens up and I feel suffocated.
No layers, filters or add on's , just a light , camera , a lens and what is seen here. Micro Nikkor 55mm 3.5 ai.
Sunlight sifts through paper walls
like warm tea poured slowly,
pooling in quiet corners of the room.
You lie where the day has decided
not to hurry—
hair spread like ink across a page
no one is rushing to read.
A book becomes a small garden
held just beneath your eyes,
its flowers borrowed for a moment
so the world can rest behind it.
Petals fall without ceremony,
keeping time with nothing at all,
while another story sleeps open
near your knee—
mid-sentence, untroubled.
The cat has chosen
the oldest language:
curl, breathe, remain.
Outside, hours move in straight lines.
Here, they fold softly
like ribbon at your waist.
Weekend—
a place where plots dissolve,
where names are forgotten,
where being alive is
simply turning a page
and not yet needing
to see what comes next.
~Unknown~