Shine On
Even if obscured by overcast weather,
the Hunter’s Moon
still radiates.
It maintains a steadfast presence
until the building clouds, as they always do,
are dispersed by the wind.
Then the night sky is illuminated once more
so those fortunate enough to look up
will be in awe.
Ignore outside forces
attempting
to lessen your uniqueness.
Reject negativity,
both external and internal,
that questions your worth.
Share what you have to offer
to shine on others,
like a Hunter’s Moon.
The Man Who Sold Sunsets
In a town that lay somewhere between the world of waking and the realm of forgotten dreams, there was a man who sold sunsets. His shop perched on the edge of a jagged cliff, where the sea sighed against the rocks far below, and the sky burned with the fading hues of day. The shop had no sign, no lights, and yet every evening, just as the first stars dared to shimmer in the twilight, people would arrive, drawn by a longing they couldn’t quite name.
Aurelius, the shopkeeper, moved like a whisper through his dimly lit shop, his silver hair glowing faintly in the dusk. He was not just a merchant but a craftsman of moments, an alchemist of light and shadow. Each bottle on his shelves held a piece of the sky—amber glass shimmering with the fire of a desert sunset, midnight-blue vials deep as the endless ocean, and rose-gold flasks that captured the tender blush of dawn just as it kissed the night away. To gaze into one of his bottles was to lose oneself in a beauty that felt almost familiar, like a half-remembered dream.
But those who came did not merely seek pretty things. They were drawn by a deeper need—an ache to capture a moment that had slipped through their fingers, a hope to relive something beautiful that had once seemed eternal. For a price, Aurelius would take the dying light of the day and weave it into something tangible. But the cost was not measured in gold or silver. His sunsets came at a price more precious than money—a memory, an emotion, a piece of the soul.
The exchange was always the same: a fading recollection in return for a fragment of the sky. An old woman surrendered the memory of her first kiss, long forgotten but still sweet; a young man traded the laughter of a friend lost to time. They would hold the bottles in trembling hands, a light that flickered just out of reach, and walk away with a glimmer in their eyes, never quite aware of what had been taken from them.
For Aurelius knew that nothing was truly free, and the heart’s deepest desires always came with a cost. He himself had once paid dearly, though he no longer remembered what it was he had given away.
One evening, as the sky bled into shades of crimson and violet, a woman entered his shop. Her steps were hesitant, and her gaze wandered, as though she was not entirely sure where she was. She wore sorrow like a second skin, and her eyes held the weight of untold stories and dreams that had slipped through her fingers. She approached the counter with a slow, quiet grace, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
“I’d like to buy a sunset,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the evening breeze. “But I have nothing left to give.”
Aurelius looked at her, truly looked, as though for the first time in ages he was seeing beyond the surface of the world. Her eyes, though weary, still flickered with the faintest ember of hope—a light so fragile it could have been mistaken for a shadow. His hand faltered as he reached for a bottle, and he felt a pang of something he had long since forgotten—compassion, or perhaps it was recognition.
“You have already given more than enough,” he replied, his voice trembling like the last notes of a lullaby. Without another word, he selected a bottle of the clearest crystal, a vessel that held not a hint of color. He carried it to the edge of the cliff, where the sky seemed to dissolve into the sea, and uncorked the bottle with a reverence reserved for lost things.
The sunset spilled forth, not as light but as something more—an indescribable warmth that seeped into the very fabric of her being. It filled the hollows within her, the spaces carved out by grief and longing, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she breathed. The air tasted like stardust and saltwater, like a lullaby sung in a language she almost remembered.
As the light faded from the sky, leaving only the indigo embrace of night, the woman turned to Aurelius with tears glistening like dew. “Thank you,” she whispered, though the words seemed impossibly small for the enormity of the gift she had received.
Aurelius only nodded, his gaze lingering on the horizon as though searching for something beyond it. He watched as she walked away, her silhouette melting into the night, and felt a quiet emptiness where the light had once been. For as long as he could remember, he had traded beauty for memories, moments for the pieces of people's lives they could not bear to keep. But this time, he had given away more than a sunset; he had given a part of himself.
That night, Aurelius closed the shop earlier than usual. As the stars began to glow above the darkened sea, he took down a bottle that had gathered dust on the highest shelf—a bottle that held a sunset long forgotten, wrapped in a memory he could not name. He uncorked it slowly, letting the light fill the shop one last time.
And as he watched the sunset dance within the glass, Aurelius wondered if, perhaps, there was a way to mend what was lost—to find again the beauty in simply watching the day slip into night, without needing to hold on to it.
In the end, what would you trade for a piece of the sky?
© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.
selective empathy
if I told you that I had the flu
you'd tell me to go home.
but why is it
when I tell you I am flaring
with my illnesses
you neither see nor understand
you see fit
to decide
whether my suffering
is worthy enough
to be acknowledged
by way of judgement,
and doubt,
and choruses of
"you dont look sick" ?
why do you have empathy
when injury and illness
are acute
and not
when they are permanent?
just because
we handle it daily
that
does not mean
it
hurts
any
less.
Can Knowledge Manifest Life?
Are we bored with living?
We feast on the sorrows of others
Spiraling into madness
Suffering with existence
Quietly begging for our release
from the chasm of the subconscious
The chaotic flow of knowledge begins
We start navigating the abyss
You hear the painful screams of lost souls
Ignorance brings confusion
Not wisdom
There’s no need to rush
Obtaining knowledge is a slow and steady process
Time gives legitimacy to existence
Be forewarned
Humanity is being algorithmically influenced and exploited
Are you not entertained?
Deep within our unconscious mind, we may be able to tap into unlimited knowledge
However, humanity may not be ready for this
As it still embraces greed and power
What about you?
You were given the gift of life
Do you know what to do with it?
Wires & Whispers
The hum of circuits fills the air,
a quiet song of ones and zeros,
where light bleeds into glass and steel,
and data flows like rivers unseen.
We speak in clicks and coded words,
fingers dancing on silent keys,
chasing thoughts across fiber and cloud,
while time folds in the palm of our hands.
Screens glow like artificial dawn,
casting shadows on digital dreams,
where faces flicker in pixel and pulse,
and the world is closer than it seems.
But beneath the buzz and shining wires,
a heartbeat echoes, soft and slow—
reminding us that in the metal and light,
it’s the human touch we still long to know.
© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.
Pretty Broken Things
Like a corvid I can instinctively find
The most derelict bits of human creation
Collected with the intent to somehow heal
Hoping to revive and perhaps make whole
Whichever pieces inside have been torn
I see the hidden beauty of such things
I do not always seek out these things
Sometimes it is me they manage to find
Sensing that parts of myself are also torn
Feeling that there is a flaw in my creation
Drawn to that which is not quite whole
In their own quest to possibly, finally heal
Ultimately it is always ourselves we heal
When we seek out other broken things
In our attempts at making something whole
We are magpies trying desperately to find
The one most existence affirming creation
To stitch and patch where we were torn
But often the places where another is torn
Show a vivid reflection of what to heal
Their broken parts are our own creation
An ugly mirror held to reveal the things
We insistently work hard to never find
Fearing what it might mean to be whole
Because whenever we do become whole
Forced to look again at why we felt torn
The sting of a needle is what we’ll find
A bright new pain that is needed to heal
Stitching and pulling through the things
That had been our soul’s sacred creation
Repairing a soul is the greatest creation
Our wisest selves bringing us whole
Allowing us to release those things
That tangle like a bird’s nest being torn
Granting ourselves permission to heal
Removing the fear of what we might find
No creation stays torn forever
The whole of eternity is how we heal
Those things we were once afraid to find