Listen to poem:
Ashen Horizon
Written: December 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Tom Woody
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My fingers are stone—
numb knuckles carved by the night’s chisel
Feet drag as anchors through drifts of powdered glass
The compass of my breath falters,
And silence gnaws at the marrow of my resolve.
I have always worshiped the wild
Scaled ridges where condors carve crescents in the sky,
wandered valleys where rivers rehearse their rhapsodies.
They warned me: "not alone, not in winter."
But I have always been a misfit pilgrim,
a shadow that strays from the procession.
Above me, the moon is a lantern of bone,
It's a halo crown of cold fire
I can hear as the air is so silent
the quiet of galaxies swirling,
the tiny hum of everlasting
despair hangs through me
similar to a worn-out cloak,
I wish to shut my eyes
to break down into the lull.
Yet—
In the argent glow, a vision unfurls.
Not a face, but a flame-shaped silhouette,
weeping rivers of light,
calling my name with a voice
that trembles the frost.
It is her.
My wife, my tether, my echo.
A surge rises—
not mine, but borrowed from some celestial reservoir.
Words ignite in my skull: "Rise. Rise."
And the mountain, once a labyrinth,
unfurls a path as a silver ribbon.
I stumble forward,
hearing voices braided with wind.
“Is that you? We were sent to find you.”
Before the dark folds me under,
I whisper, “Who sent you?”
And the answer drifts,
soft as snow,
bright as salvation:
"Your Guardian-angel."
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