22.02.2026

Sunday Whirl — #745

A thin shroud of dawn
lifts from the water,
revealing symbols carved in rock—
old as the sun,
soft as the moon.

I follow the tracks
along a hidden trail,
where something once stolen
still hums in the marrow.

A broken spear lies buried there,
a rusted cross tilting toward light.
Not defeat—
but memory.

I kneel,
touch earth,
and make a promise
to walk forward
without armor,
without shadow.

Only sky above,
and tide below.

— Maggie
The Afterlove Voice 💫