John Anderson Poet Lyric

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So and So

So the tide remembers what the shores let slip.
Its script etched in the bones of the skies above,
a ledger of moons and unseen gravitation tugs
where every retreat conceals a surge to return.

So the river bends but never breaks.
carving sinuous curves through stubborn spines of stone,
teaching the land that yielding is not defeat,
but the quiet strength of soft resilience.

So the wind moves, moulding the world with invisible hands,
a sculptor without form, a voice without a tongue,
lifting leaves, bending trees, carrying dust and debris,
that no eye can seize, contain, or truly behold.

So the stars recall what time dares not erase,
burning ancient truths into the dark’s endless expanse,
each flash of light a memory older than time itself,
each flicker is a refusal to yield to the void.

So the dawn reclaims what the dusk once stole,
pouring molten gold into the fractured seams of night,
tracing the fault lines where darkness splits the day,
on the horizon - a shadowy play of silhouettes.

So the mirage reveals what was never there,
a shimmering hymn to the hunger for insight,
where longing sketches phantoms in mid-air
teaching the heart its fluid illusions.

So echoes repeat only what someone has told them,
Their hollows filled with borrowed sounds
a looped refrain of captured voices
a time-lapse mirror of reflections.

So even the silence has something to say,
a language of pauses, breathed, held in suspension,
where meaning gathers in the white space between lines
and what's unsaid speaks louder for not being said.

So time does not heal, mend, nor forget
it only reshapes the ruined remains with patient hands,
turning collapse into contour and texture,
for a strangely different kind of conception.

So what we hold on to is only what we can't let go
a tether of memory, fierce in its keeping,
for what we can't let go becomes a gilded chain,
binding us tightly to the roots of what we once were.

So what we long for is what love refuses to leave,
an ember that smolders and refuses to fade,
a reaching out for what we cannot hold or cradle
that time cannot forget, nor absence erase. 

So every new start grows from an ending left unsaid.
each beginning seeded in silence and ash,
for what is not spoken still shapes what becomes—
and the end is never the end, only turning the wheel.

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