Author: Simona A. Brinson
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Ode to an Ordinary Day O ordinary day, you ask for little—no thunderous sky, no grand parade,just morning light across the tableand coffee slowly being made.The sparrows gossip by the window,the laundry dances on the line,a neighbor waves, a screen door closes—small moments passing, yours and mine.No miracle announces itself,no trumpet tells us, Look this…
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Beneath the Priory Lot Beneath the Priory’s parking stone,Something stirs where roots have grown.No grave is marked, no bell is rung,Yet midnight speaks in an ancient tongue.The asphalt cracks when the moon hangs low,And pale hands rise from the earth below.Some say a monk was buried there—Still whispering curses into the air.So park with care…
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Ode to William Wallace O Wallace brave, with sword held high,You fought for freedom beneath Scotland’s sky.Though chains were offered, you would not kneel—Your heart was fire, your courage steel.The man may fall, the years may pass,But freedom still whispers through Highland grass. Simona A. Brinson Photo by John Cardamone on Unsplash ©mylifeinword.com All rights…
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The common man survives quietly.He rises before the sun has decided what kind of day it will be. He pulls on yesterday’s tired shoes, carries tomorrow’s worries in his pockets, and goes to work beneath the weight of bills, promises, and mouths that must be fed. No trumpets sound for him. No history book records…
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Where Dreams Go When They Die Where do dreams go when they die—when hope folds up its silver wingsand silence settleswhere tomorrow used to sing?Perhaps they drift beneath the bed,gathering dust beside lost things,or wander through abandoned roomswearing crowns and broken rings.Perhaps they sink into the earth,small seeds beneath the frozen ground,waiting for a kinder…
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Tending Dead Flames I kneel beside the ashesof what we used to be,cupping cold embersas though they might remember heat.I feed them old promises,dry apologies,and photographs where our smilesstill knew how to touch.But love cannot be warmedby one pair of hands.Still, I strike another match—watching it flare, tremble,and die against the darknessyou left behind.Simona A.…
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To live or give up—that is the question.Is it better to keep taking every hit life throws,or to finally say, I’m doneand end the pain for good?Dying sounds like sleep—quiet, peaceful, no more stress,no more heartbreak, no more pretending everything is fine.But what if death is not the end?What if something comes after,and it is…
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He stood like a tree winter had forgotten to finish—all bone, bark, and bitter silence. Once, perhaps, something green had stirred inside him. A tenderness. A small mercy. But he had starved every soft thing at the root until nothing remained but twisted branches reaching toward a sky that no longer answered.People mistook his stillness…
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What the Tree Said to the Acorn “Little acorn, do not fear,Your growing season soon is here.Stretch your roots and reach up high—One day you’ll tickle clouds nearby!”Simona A. Brinson Photo by Nathan Ansell on Unsplash ©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
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The Timber Twosome Old wooden sweethearts stood out in the grass,sharing one umbrella with weatherproof class.He leaned a bit crooked, she stayed by his side,both stiff as a board but beaming with pride.If rain started falling, they wouldn’t complain—they’ve probably been standing through decades of rain.Simona A. Brinson Photo by T on Unsplash ©mylifeinword.com All…
My Life In Word 