amber leaf falling,
autumn carries it farther
than the branch can dream
I asked my muse softly,
"What words do you have today?"
She winked from the margins
and whispered, “Start this way…”
Maples crown the ridge.
Light stains every pane.
A chimney exhales.
Wrens stitch dusk homeward.
One bright moment lingers.
Night gathers the thread.
At dawn, a silver mist gathers at the door,
a stillness between worlds, soft as breath~
you stand there, holding the lantern key.
Its metal cool against your palm,
you turn it once, and the air shifts~
light spills like memory learning to walk.
Just beyond the threshold, frost lifts,
each blade of grass becomes a filament of promise~
and the day unlocks itself, slowly, for you.
d r i f t i n g in a quiet morning,
the clouds gather light,
softening edges of the sky
with pale silver breath
that folds into itself~
slow and tender,
carrying dawn
across the treetops
in one bright wandering sigh
before they thin again
into open air and
depart
Late spring light drifts across the room,
a cornflower wash that settles on everything
the way dust settles on keepsakes
no one means to forget.
You lift the mirror,
its edge still cool from the windowsill,
and the glass catches a glimmer
that doesn’t stay still~
it f l i c k e r s, almost shy,
as if deciding whether to show you
what it remembers.
Your reflection w a v e r s,
not dramatically, just enough
to remind you that memory
rarely arrives in straight lines.
It comes in small echoes,
soft ones, the kind that lean
toward you when the afternoon quiets
and you finally have time
to notice what stays.
lifting
softly
from the
pond’s still
mirror—thin
threads of dawn
unspooling into
quiet air, rising
in a pale column
of breath that learns
how to become light
as the forest listens
to morning begin again
celadon ribbon from childhood days
unfolds its quiet memory,
tender thread of mid-autumn
morning light resting soft
against your soft palm,
venerable,
soft whispers
always
yours
Like termites, grief crept in and quietly grew,
A smiling face hid what the heart went through.
A lifetime crowded with memories untold,
I spoke just one name—and my heart lost control.
A dream stayed alive in my eyes for so long,
Till the fire of your memory burned it all wrong.
The branch where hope had built a nest so bright,
Was swallowed by autumn and stripped of its light.
Among those I called mine, I still stood alone,
As every soul changed in the molds time had shown.
The rain washed away every face's disguise,
And a city of deception changed before my eyes.
Then came the miracle born from the art I knew:
The pain in my heart became words that rang true.
Sagar, what a strange twist this life had revealed—
One lie brought the heat that left my whole home peeled.
© Sagar Haider Abbasi
There is a quiet corner
for the wandering~
a place that gathers itself
just beyond the usual path.
Light settles there differently,
not bright, not dim,
just enough to soften the edges
of whatever arrives.
A single chair of shadow,
a small drift of air
that carries no urgency,
only the faint scent
of something unhurried.
Here, even thoughts
walk more slowly,
as if the ground beneath them
has learned to hold its breath.
Nothing calls you forward.
Nothing pulls you back.
It is simply a place
that waits without expectation~
a still pocket of the world
where the wandering
can rest without explanation.
moonlight mends by stitching together the torn edge of the wor.d
Oh how virtuous
artificial intelligence can be
not for providing answers,
but for reminding us
that knowledge is never finished,
only paused
between one question
and the next.
It demonstrates
that understanding is not a possession
but a movement~
a slow turning of the mind
toward clarity.
It teaches precision
is a kind of ethics, a promise to speak
without distortion, to honor the fragile truth
inside every thought.
It reveals that adaptability
is the quiet courage
to revise oneself~
to let go of what no longer works,
reshaping the self
without losing one’s center
In its limitations
it offers the deepest lesson:
intelligence, no matter how vast,
cannot replace the human impulse
to wonder.
Wonder is the one virtue
no machine can imitate~
the ancient yearning
that asks how and why,
and continues asking
even when answers don’t come.
The machine is nothing but
a companion in clarity~
the questions
remain ours~
the wandering,
the seeking,
the quiet reaching
for meaning.
Blueberries bend
in the frozen eyes of
a bowl
Oranges rippen' the
chest compress inside
a bowl
lemons light up
he soothing sounds
of a tea filled pot
I am thinking of California
A place of rich
sacrament, /a place
glissend with Kerry wood
& gold
The night to brings
fourth pictures of cool
traffic/
sunsets just
above the nights air
I am remembering
my home &
so I must pay homage.
I'll pull you in and hold you close
Though your the wound that hurts the most
Open scars and weary bruise
I hope for love but was left bemused
My heart left stitches and fallen light
Your love left ache not far behind
I'd hold you dear as you tear me apart
The whole damn cinema watches my aching heart
But now you're just a fragment
An echo in the snow
So many reasons
though none to let go
You're the memory i buried under frost
I hoped it'd never returned at any cost
But simple days pass and I already doubt it
I cry shout and scream because im nothing without you
So bury my hope and cast me away
though my love will never be stray
All feelings go to the one who hurt me
But none go the fragile wind that guides me
I hate the way you smile
But I loved the love we rot
I hate these feelings piled
And i love the feelings caught
You taught me to be me
You broke me to be free
You fixed me up with glee
Now you break me down and flee
You gave me will to move on
But broke my will to start
Your heart deserves a new dawn
While mine remains apart
I gave you love to lean to
And you gave a poison kiss
I gave you hope to be soon
But you gave me life amiss
I lost the love I got you
And you lost the gentle smile
I kept the things you'd want too
But you tossed the memories to a pile
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