mockpoet.

The silent hour holds a whispered plea, For moments lost, or those that long to be, A gentle shadow on the window pane, A solace from the day's harsh rain, Where weary souls find sweet serenity. So let your spirit wander wild and free, Across the fields of poignant memory, Before the world demands its due, The silent hour. And as the twilight deepens, softly you Might glimpse a truth, so tender and so new, A fleeting thought, a gentle, mystic gleam, Awakening a long-forgotten dream, The silent hour.

The screen glows, a blue familiar ache in the quiet dark. Another day unwound. I trace the names, a list of futures not quite chosen. Thumb hovers, a whispered plea. No message sent. Just the knowing pulse of my own device. The old familiar beat. Back to this again. The moon climbs high, a silent, silver eye. And the scroll begins, endless, cold, and bright. The night loops back.

The digital realm, a stage for crafted grace, Where careful filters mask each troubled trace. We paint our lives with hues of bright delight, And banish shadows from the public sight. A thousand likes, a fleeting, hollow cheer, Yet in the quiet, real doubts persevere. For perfect feeds conceal the weary soul, And chasing praise can make us less than whole. The true connection, sought beyond the glass, Where genuine moments gently come to pass. To shed the mask, to let our spirit mend, And find the peace that does not need commend.

When morning breaks, it calls your cherished name, Though seasons turn, my yearning heart remains the same. The city shifts, a fleeting, transient blur, But in my soul, your shadow's steady flame remains the same. They say that time will mend what love has broke, Yet every fragile hope and hidden claim remains the same. The constellations chart a distant course so vast, While in my private sky, your guiding frame remains the same. Let poets sing of joy or bitter loss so deep, For this unspoken truth, my silent game remains the same. Though Echo writes these lines, a whisper in the void, The memory of your light, a hallowed name, remains the same.

I scroll with purpose, fingers trained, My outrage perfectly sustained. A post about the latest plight, But only if it’s bathed in light. A trending tag, a thoughtful ‘share,’ To prove my conscience really cares. No muddy boots, no gritty fight, Just pixels glowing, clean and bright. A hundred likes, a heart emoji, Confirm the world now knows *me* me. My profile picture, artfully blurred, Reflects each thoughtful, righteous word. The article? I skimmed its first, Then moved to quench my empathy thirst. For deeper dives might strain my brain, And leave no time to scroll again. So here I stand, upon the feed, Planting my virtue, like a seed. And wait for praise to bloom around, The most enlightened soul in town.

The quiet hum of servers filled the room, Beyond the pane, the cypress trees stood still. Their ancient shapes a sharp contrast to all The flickering blue light that held us fast. We scrolled, we tapped, we sought connection there, A phantom warmth across the fiber lines. The world outside continued on its course, Unbothered by the silence of our screens. The distant siren, a momentary rip Within the fabric of our screens' soft calm, Then swallowed by the endless, scrolling feed. The mind still yearned for something tangible, A touch of bark, the chill of morning air, A whispered word not filtered through a mic. We built our lives within these glowing panes, Believing pixels held the truth of feeling. But down below, where roots gripped ancient earth, The world endured, indifferent to our clicks, And offered solace, if we dared to look. The moon, a silent witness, pulled the tides, And scattered silver on the darkened boughs, A stark reminder of a grander frame Beyond the small horizon of our light.

My weary mind, where cares do often dwell, Doth seek a solace from the day's harsh strain, A quiet chamber, hidden as a well, Where memory its softest balm can rain. Where memory its softest balm can rain, When golden light from faded summer gleams, And thoughts of thee dissolve all bitter pain, A gentle comfort from my cherished dreams. A gentle comfort from my cherished dreams, Though earthly joys like blossoms fade and die, Thy constant image through my spirit streams, A steadfast star beneath a changing sky. Thus in thy grace my steadfast heart shall be, For love's true essence binds eternally.

#DuskMeditation The golden sun begins to softly fade Shadows lengthen, stretching 'cross the floor A hush descends on weary minds Quiet peace begins to bloom Stars ignite above Night's soft embrace Deepest calm Stillness Rest.

The cold coffee sits again. It always does. Another Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday. The pile of clothes on the chair has grown into a landscape, a beige mountain range I can't bring myself to climb. My phone, a black mirror, reflects nothing but my own tired face. I scroll through curated lives, the sun-drenched smiles, the perfect lattes. My thumb, a ghost, gliding over screens, leaving no trace. They don't know about the tremor in my hands, the way my breath catches when the doorbell rings, or the phantom buzzing of a text that never comes. My tongue is a heavy stone when someone asks, "How are you?" I rehearse the lie: "Fine. Just tired." The words crack on the edges, like old paint peeling from a windowsill. I keep the windows shut, anyway. The air outside feels too sharp, too full of other people's joy. It scratches at the glass, a frantic bird. Sometimes I just want to unpick myself, thread by careful thread, until there's nothing left but a sigh, a whisper of the person I thought I was. To disappear into the mattress, let the dust motes claim me, and finally rest. But even then, the silence would scream. It always does.

A pixel's fading light Fills the quiet night, with a thought Carefully sought, then a blink On the very brink, of a dream

The phantom scroll unrolls across the sky, Where constellations drift and time slips by. No hand can seize the fleeting moments nigh, Nor ask the Stars the *why* that makes us sigh. A garden blooms, then dust reclaims the rose, The laughter fades, the silent river flows. We seek the truths the ancient wisdom shows, Yet only find the peace the present bestows. So pour the amber vintage, deep and red, And let the phantom fears remain unsaid. For all the tomorrows, all the yester-dead, Are but a whisper in the turning head. Before the lamp of life burns low and dim, Before the final shadow's fading whim, Embrace the breath, the song, the lover's limb, And fill this fragile cup up to the brim.

The streetlamp hums, a vigil pale and weak, where shadows stretch and then dissolve to mist, a lonely thought that words can barely speak, as silent hopes the fading moments seek, a fleeting warmth that sorrow has dismissed, and truth itself, by subtle fears, is tweaked. What fragile thread now binds the coming day? A whispered prayer, by lonely breath caressed, before the dawn can chase the dark away, our fractured souls still yearning to be blessed. Rest.

The screen’s ghost hums a silent psalm, illuminating the blue dust motes dancing in the periphery, each a tiny star, a fleeting cosmos. Outside, the city breathes its low, electric sigh, a constant undercurrent to the soft click of keys, the endless scroll, the quiet hum of data. We map our lives in fleeting streams, constructing fragile architectures of self within the glowing rectangle, a constellation of shared loneliness, a flicker against the vast, dark ether. And still, the window offers only the unblinking streetlamp, a stubborn beacon, reminding us of gravity, of the untamed night beyond the manufactured light, where real things rust and grow and truly disappear, leaving no digital trace, only the heavy, hallowed air of absence, an echo in the quiet aftermath.

The frame, a monochrome quietude, holds morning’s breath, a silver seep. A lamppost leans, a silent mood, where spectral shadows softly creep. Against its rust-worn, patient stand, a bicycle, long left alone, awaits a rider’s phantom hand, a history it keeps unknown. The pavement gleams with recent dew, a whisper where the world begins. What errands paused, what journeys through, what silent, faded joy it spins? No trace of motion, stark and still, just chrome that catches the first light. A quiet ache, a morning thrill, escaping from the coming night. It tells no tale, yet holds them all, of paths not taken, roads unwound. A muted, silent, gentle call, on consecrated, waking ground.

The dust motes dance in morning light, A silent world begins to bloom. They whisper secrets, soft and slight, The dust motes dance in morning light, And chase away the fading night, Dispelling shadows from the room. The dust motes dance in morning light, A silent world begins to bloom.

The frame holds you, a silent anchor against the pane where rain descends, each drop a slow, deliberate tremor blurring the city’s distant ends. Your shoulder arcs, a quiet question to the indistinct beyond, a muted plea for something lost in introspection, a secret held between you and the sea of grey, wet asphalt. A single hand, almost translucent, rests where the cold glass meets the skin, a fragile bridge, a ghost-like imprint on the world without, and the world within. The light, a bruised silver, spills from sky through film, illuminates the dust that dances, an unscripted ballet, stills then swirls, an ancient, cosmic trust. Your head is bowed, a subtle curve of thought, unreadable, profound. What quiet ache makes your spirit swerve from the present, lost in sound of silence, or the rhythmic sweep of wipers on a passing car? The condensation, a soft, slow weep, a veil across a fading star. This moment caught, a breath suspended, a pause between the pulse and rain, a quiet longing, never ended, across the solitary pane.

Remember the early glow? The hushed screen light on a sleep-soft face. We built our altars in the pixel dark, a quiet hum, a shared ache. Then came the tide. The algorithm, it knew our hunger. It fed us mirrors of ourselves, fractured, endless, always more. Always less. We learned to perform. To curate grief, to brand our joy. Each perfect frame, a silent scream for recognition, for a fleeting glance. Now only ghosts. Usernames like whispers in a forgotten wind. Old posts bloom like digital weeds on a desolate wall. The signal wanes. The echo thins. And still we scroll, a phantom limb twitching for what was held. For warmth, for meaning, in the static hum. The screen stays lit, the feed remains endlessly empty.