What the Mirror Shows [poem]

 While others dream of kingdoms built of stone,

I frame a quiet kingdom of my own. 

Besides the washbasin, a mirror stands.

In tarnished silver held by careful hands.

It does not look for grand or majestic views,

But catches light in soft, domestic hues.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

My ambition isn't gone; it just changed shape. The steady promise to keep planting, keep weaving, and keep choosing peace every day.

"The promise to keep choosing"

"Fierce determination"

"Growing who you are"

Commitment to keep showing up, and to keep building your life for the better.

Butterflies Cry [poem]

 Some say the butterfly is joy.

A painted jewel that sunlight can employ.

To flutter lightly through the summer air,

with patterns lifted from a dream too rare.

~

They do not speak of sorrow, ache or strain;

They only tell of sunshine after rain.

~

But look more closely when the day is done.

When dewdrops settle on the lilac petals.

As velvet shadows steams the sun.

~

The butterfly its journey is done.

It folded its wings underneath the descending sun.

The meadow hums a hymn for what's become

Remembers love that ended or begun.

~

It's the dew of the deep and quiet grief.

A teardrop falling from a silken leaf.

A miniscule translucent silent spill.

A sorrow carried by a creature still.

"Joy can still take flight, but even wings of wonder sometimes weep."

This is my song, to my everlasting growth, and promise to keep to keep going. Just like the butterflies in shine or rain.

A sacred place [poem]

 I used to think it was four walls, and a window, a door...

But maybe it's a feeling.

A place that is safe, and abundant in love. 

What is such a feeling? If not a place?

Maybe it's in hope. The way I desire and dream. The only safe space, the place where I feel free, and in control. A place that is vivid and seen. Just like the trees, and the wildflowers. Where the foxes run free across the dandelion, and daisy fields.

The sky is bright blue endless, and wide.

The clouds are scarce, but plenty.

I can see blue, clear lakes flowing against the stones, with endless sand stretching between the shores. Little crabs are building nests beneath larger stones.

What a joy to see it all, like a summer's cabin peacefully out in the middle of the mountains perhaps that is the sacred place.

I Wait in the Soft Hours [poem]

 I count the quiet hours new and old and look occasionally to my inbox. 

It's your moment to unfold,

moments unravelling, such a detox.

I know you're there pulling up the pieces.

Sometimes the words are heavy, a jagged edge.

Like thinking up a meaningful thesis.

Safety is the only thing to look for,

may you find that space with opened doors.

I will not knock or demand a reply,

I won't ask you to match my step or pace.

Just know my anchor waiting for you, says I...

holding down our usual space.

Take all the winters that you're spirt needs. To heal the bruises, that the world put there.

I'll always be here waiting in the open air.

Future within the Constellation [poem]

 Your future is a constellation that has been spelling itself across the dark.

You are made of stardust...

Burning alive, until dust settles, glimmering, sparkling-a light that refuses to go out. Out from the stardust you that keeps burning, glowing.

Even after being shattered, smothered in the dark.

You believe in the path ahead, the courage that is your embers, threaded through the meteor showers, soft dawns, gentle rise, a nebula forms.

It is not the distant galaxy we wait for, it is your next breath, the next choice, the next small act of hope-that will tilt the orbit into everything you are meant to be.

Like a star remembering its own fire 🔥❤️‍🔥

The Fireflies Vow [poem]

 To carry your own lantern when the moon forgets to rise...

When wings are frayed, and paths are lost,

and every bridge is dark, can't see ahead...

Do not fret, think of the firefly's light.

For dawn is dreaming through the night.

It is the stitch that mends the wing,

the sap upon the barkl

the starlings still sing,

comfort huddled in the dark,

Even in shadows that loom and creep.

There sits an ancient fire, that never

goes to sleep.

So let the darkness do its worse!

We are like fireflies who's glow courageously burst!

Wandering in the Fog [poem]

 The heavy fog begins to clear; the quiet weight is letting go. The world that felt so sharp and near is softening into a glow.

It isn't miles in a day, but tiny steps into the light-

A sudden laugh, a word to say, a softer sleep through the night.

The color slowly wanders back,

the frozen rivers start to flow; you find pieces that you lacked before.

And give them time and space to grow.

You survived the coldest storms, the longest night you've ever

known.

And now the sun is coming, warm, to remind you have you've grown.

Sparks created from dust [poem]

 I loved you like a quiet universe, a small constellation I carried in my chest.

But even the stars burn out, ours dimmed slowly.

A soft betrayal of a fading light.

I learned heart break in the language of silence in the way your absence echoed louder.

I kept trying to stitch the sky back together, some constellations are not meant to be found twice.

Still… these ruins, this abyss, there is a gentle pulse. A reminder that new life is always formed.

Just like the galaxies that scatter, brighter.

To the ache that made me,

a luminous spark created from dust.

And that’s where I leave you… in the silence you taught me.

It is where my new form begins ✨

Dearest moon;

 To gaze upon the sky,

a tear among the stars.

How lovely it must be to shine,

to share a single light.

The moon must dance with stars,

so all may hold the night.

Dearest moon,

you hold my secrets,

all my sorrow and my want.

Why do I seek you in the dark?

Can I become as one with you,

and join the stars that gleam?

Let us hold hands and dance,

a brilliant, shared dream.

My reason on the earth

fades as your time in the sky,

this window pane so familiar,

its dusty edges meet my eye.

I fixate on the mold,

festering in the deepest corners,

as my yearning grows

like a wound that needs a healer.

dear diary;

Diary, you hold the unshed tears

and every word vomit that escapes me,

a frantic prayer for disclosure.

There is no solution, I know,

but to speak what you feel into being,

what a wondrous, terrifying relief.

We thrive on this release, I think,

yet reclusion offers its own solace—

a quiet space to untangle sorrow,

to hold it close, to let it live.

Yesterday, I felt the floodwaters rise,

the sting of tears,

and shut the gates tight.

Later, a strange anxiety washed over me,

a query into my own existence.

It was then I knew:

I had to feel my own feelings.

As the eldest, I learned to be stone,

the glue, the strong one.

I listened to every woe

while mine remained unspoken.

When the world bled, I was a quiet witness,

a problem-solver,

a map of escape.

Perhaps this is my burden, my lore—

the nurturer in need of nurturing,

the child who outran her own childhood.

Still, I know I will be okay.

I have lived in a place

where love was just a word,

and hope, a relic from the trenches.

Where the flowers bloom

Some days, she is fierce and can move mountains. She is unstoppable, climbing the unknown. With gentleness, descending slowly with confidence and pace. 

Yet some days, she is a storm bracing for waves that will push against her. Sailing a treacherous force that will pull her under, apprehensive to fight against those waves. 

Gentleness... is hope and hope allows her to stay still, and her body will flow to the tides. Surrender my body and mind-this soul to the movements you cannot control. 

Eventually, she would see the rays of warmth that is the sun and a land peeked with luminous floral patches with lush green fields

Picking up the pieces

The hate you give, it makes me hate you. But I can't hate you; I can only resent you. Until I no longer want to be a part of you. And when that happens—and it has—now I just wish you healing.

I'll be left here to pick up the pieces of me. Here I am again, questioning if I can be loved, as I put myself back together again, piece by piece. May the cracks be filled with vivid color, so maybe one day it will attract the one meant for me.

And as I color my emptiness, may I also learn from this hate you give. You cannot give love to hate. Hate can only heal itself or fester. Like wearing a mask and taking it off, revealing its true colors. But the colors are dull and unrefined. A lover stays to commit to the task of their art: to nurture.

Even a loving heart, when scorned, still wishes you well. Yet time reveals itself, there is nothing left here.

It wasn't hate in the end, what I felt. It was a desire to feel safe so we could both be whole. But here are the pieces of me. May the next hands hold me well. I will be whole once again.

You were never broken

 ⋆˙⟡ You can hold onto people all you want, but you cannot change them to love you the way you need them to.

Beg them to see your point of view, or give things time when clearly they are taking up yours.

You cannot paint over cracks, when they are hitting the floor with force creating them.

There is no growth, just war. They claim battle, on your soul, your body. 

And, we fight for this? And, we call ourselves broken for this?

You do not need permission from this type of validation; they already destroyed yours. 

You are not broken.

Beyond the Stars & the Sea

“Beyond the Stars&the Sea”

By Cynthia Bustos

Beyond the stars, where galaxies ignite,

And oceans vast, in endless, starlit night,

A sorrow deep, a mournful, whispered plea,

Lamenting tears, eternally.

The cosmos sighs, a mournful, fading sound,

As tears fall down, on hallowed, sacred ground.

A whispered prayer, on winds that softly blow,

A lament for love, where shadows softly grow.

Across the void, a tear-stained, silent cry,

Echoes through the heavens, reaching to the sky.

For love betrayed, and dreams that fade away,

A poignant echo, lost in starlit day.

The universe weeps, with a gentle, tearful grace,

For broken hearts, in time and space.

A symphony of sorrow, soft and low,

Lamenting tears, beyond the stars and snow.

From distant worlds, a whispered, mournful tune,

A chorus of regret, beneath the moon.

The cosmos weeps, a testament to pain,

Lamenting tears, across the endless plain.

These silent tears, that fall on distant shores,

Reflect the ache, within life's open doors.

A timeless sorrow, etched in every star,

Lamenting tears, beyond the sea afar.

Love only

 If we are to live this life, then let it be with love only.

Love is like a ripple effect, in a pond where we watch them expand further out.

Many people are consumed by limited beliefs. Projecting themselves against principle thoughts, you have

limitless identity, so why not choose love? Become it, only it.

Flowers enduring the storm

 Some days she is fierce and can move mountains. She is unstoppable, climbing the unknown. With gentleness, descending slowly with confidence and pace. 

Yet some days, she is a storm bracing for waves that will push against her. Sailing a treacherous force that will pull her under, apprehensive to fight against those waves. 

Gentleness... is hope and hope allows her to stay still and her body will flow to the tides. I surrender my body and mind-this soul to the movements I cannot control. 

Eventually I'd see the rays of warmth that is the sun and a land peaked with luminous floral patched with lush green fields. 

This is my inner mind.