Shadows and Smoke
Either the sun is broken,
or someone has stolen it.
The feeling of comfort,
of warmth,
is rare these days.
I find myself longing
for the shades of summer,
where shadows of people
and things
made the world more real.
Now, mists have taken over—
the views from my windows,
a magical backdrop
for dreamy photos.
I took a walk
in the misty rain,
its tender touch
washing away the paths,
erasing old impressions.
Misty drops clung
to bare branches,
sparkling like crystals
from a realm of quiet magic.
In the silence,
I heard the sound of mists
battling the light breeze,
a pleasing symphony,
until the silence shattered
by a passing plane.
My mind snapped back
to harsh reality,
to the memory
of a landing plane
where many souls
were taken away.
I imagine their relief—
the hope of reaching,
of arrival—
stolen in cruel waves
of burning fire.
All their stories,
their hopes,
their dreams—
vanished in the smoke,
a fading echo
in the sky.
My heart sobs,
but still throbs
with the pain I imagine—
the ache in the souls
of those left behind,
their love still burning,
their grief a shadow
that feels more real
than the sun.
Copyright © Urva Patel | Year Posted 2025
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