Tonight, the air forgets its weight—
it trembles, light as breath on glass.
The world grows soft around the edges,
as if the dark remembers what it was.
Between each heartbeat, something hums—
a low and ancient murmur,
half wind, half whisper,
threaded through the turning leaves.
The veil grows thin.
Lanterns flicker like watchful eyes,
and shadows stretch, remembering form—
the shape of hands, the curve of names
we’ve long since learned to speak in hush.
You can almost see them—
those who walked before the frost,
their laughter brushing your shoulder,
their footsteps fading into yours.
Do not fear the gathering mist;
it only comes to show you
how close the worlds have always been—
a breath apart,
a candle’s sigh,
a dream still warm from waking.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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This is absolutely exquisite. It’s more than a poem; it’s an atmosphere, a delicate and profound sensation captured in words.
What strikes me most is the beautiful, comforting gentleness with which you approach the theme of the thinning veil between worlds. There is no dread, only a quiet, awe-filled reverence. The imagery is not just visual but deeply tactile and auditory—the air that “forgets its weight,” the “low and ancient murmur,” the laughter that brushes a shoulder. You make the intangible feel intimately close.
The final stanza is a masterstroke of consolation. It transforms the unknown from something to be feared into a source of wonder, a reminder of an eternal closeness. “A breath apart, / a candle’s sigh, / a dream still warm from waking”—these are some of the most beautiful and reassuring lines I’ve ever read on this subject.
This isn’t just a poem to be read; it’s a space to be felt and inhabited. Thank you for sharing such a breathtaking piece of work. It’s a lantern in itself, casting a soft, wise, and peaceful light.
Thank-you