PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She reaches—hesitates—

fingers brittle as winter’s last branch,

the bottle staring back,

its glass throat murmuring familiar deceptions.

Nights spill recklessly into mornings,

ink bleeding into damp paper—

the edges blurred, time indecipherable,

dawn uncertain, caught between battle and truce.

Borrowed peace exacts its price,

etching itself into tomorrow’s bones,

choices shattering like glass beneath her feet—

a currency paid in waiting wounds.

The weight tightens beneath her ribs,

a slow, silent reckoning, pulling her

toward surrender, toward escape,

toward the edge that doesn’t promise return.

Yet hands reach—steady, certain—

not for the bottle, but for the one

beyond the war. Lanterns in the fog,

breaking through the heavy pull of surrender.

The flag thrashes, its edges torn,

its allegiance yet unclaimed.

And the arrow, trembling, nocked in hesitation,

waits on release— its flight determined

not by the wind, but by will.