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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Written: May 23, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh Quote: I have an existential map. It has 'You are here' written all over it. By Steven Wright 1st place contest winner ************************ Some mornings you wake with a rumbustious ache in the pith of your paradigm, a sense that the cosmos has quietly performed xenogenesis while you slept— and now the room, the air, even your own pulse feels subtly estranged. You rise, wretchedly aware of a moribund meander between who you were and who you are feigning to be. Your premonition prowl as diligent acrobat ants through a chiaroscuro of callow certainties, each one a conundrum You cannot quite evanesce. Outside, the clouds cradle a somber shimmer, as if spume itself is engaged in some telluric palaver with the sun. You witness it, weighed the whisper of an inimical synchronicity— the sense that the cosmos is both ubiquitous and utterly indifferent to your private pandemonium of phobias. You wander, Your footsteps are spasmodically guided by a recalcitrant instinct that refuses to liaise with reason. Each shade appears an uncanny eidolon, each melody a malapropism of obsolete phrases from erstwhile selves you forfeit in the declivity of eons. A wilted wisp of wisteria whispers on your skin, its wondrous amaranthine hue a brief, winsome reprieve from the miasma of your feelings. But fascination feels persnickety today-- oblation solace you can't quite acquiesce to, a meretricious minister. You linger in a lull swale where cowslips cascade with soothing stillness. Their translucent tulips seem to mumble a panegyric to all that is transient, and for a fleeting fraction You feel the faintest ataraxia— a silence that is so tender It could be crushed by a single sigh. But the moment melts away. It always does. Existence lingers its obstreperous colloquy, its relentless requests, its doggedness in reminding you that certainty It is a nugatory splendor. And yet— beneath the bitterness, beneath the bristling skeptics, beneath the ossified fears that gnaw against your soul, something stirs: a selcouth shimmer, a liminal sanctity, a tellurian whisper that perhaps your mystery It is not a mistake but a threshold. Maybe the cosmos is not craving clarity but your company— for the spirit to simply stay, breath bursting, beneath the burden of your being, and still whisper yes to the adjacent untold instance.
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