A Quiet Kingdom
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- FormatePub
- ISBN8231361281
- EAN9798231361281
- Date de parution07/05/2025
- Protection num.pas de protection
- Infos supplémentairesepub
- ÉditeurWalzone Press
Résumé
Introductionto the ones who remember what can't be heldThere is a place where voices echo long after they're gone. Not in sound, but in sensation-a flicker behind the eyes, a chill in the bones, a name you whisper without meaning to. This book was born in that place. Not from clarity, but from ache. From the quiet rooms we carry inside, where grief doesn't scream, it waits. Where silence is a second language, and memory is both the wound and the bandage.
You will not find directions here. This is not a map, but a record of the walk-through the shadowed edges of the heart, where light is rare, but memory is bright, where solitude is not an asylum, but a steady continued existence. These poems are not answers. They are moments held up to the lightto see what's left of them. They are fragments, offerings, what remains after love leavesand something in you insists on speaking anyway.
If you've ever loved deeply and lost completely, then you already know this road. Welcome. You are not walking it alone.
You will not find directions here. This is not a map, but a record of the walk-through the shadowed edges of the heart, where light is rare, but memory is bright, where solitude is not an asylum, but a steady continued existence. These poems are not answers. They are moments held up to the lightto see what's left of them. They are fragments, offerings, what remains after love leavesand something in you insists on speaking anyway.
If you've ever loved deeply and lost completely, then you already know this road. Welcome. You are not walking it alone.
Introductionto the ones who remember what can't be heldThere is a place where voices echo long after they're gone. Not in sound, but in sensation-a flicker behind the eyes, a chill in the bones, a name you whisper without meaning to. This book was born in that place. Not from clarity, but from ache. From the quiet rooms we carry inside, where grief doesn't scream, it waits. Where silence is a second language, and memory is both the wound and the bandage.
You will not find directions here. This is not a map, but a record of the walk-through the shadowed edges of the heart, where light is rare, but memory is bright, where solitude is not an asylum, but a steady continued existence. These poems are not answers. They are moments held up to the lightto see what's left of them. They are fragments, offerings, what remains after love leavesand something in you insists on speaking anyway.
If you've ever loved deeply and lost completely, then you already know this road. Welcome. You are not walking it alone.
You will not find directions here. This is not a map, but a record of the walk-through the shadowed edges of the heart, where light is rare, but memory is bright, where solitude is not an asylum, but a steady continued existence. These poems are not answers. They are moments held up to the lightto see what's left of them. They are fragments, offerings, what remains after love leavesand something in you insists on speaking anyway.
If you've ever loved deeply and lost completely, then you already know this road. Welcome. You are not walking it alone.