The Secret Keeper

We all carry things that no one sees. Some of us carry stories—others’ stories, whispered confessions, silent tears, half-smiles masking old wounds. We listen, we hold, we keep. But what happens when the secret keeper has secrets of their own?

This poem is for those who’ve ever held someone else’s truth and wondered quietly: Who do I tell mine to?

Secrets.
Skeletons.
Hidden closets.
Behind every closed door, there’s one—
Mine included.

A secret keeper, that’s what I’ve become.
I carry them—
All those whispered truths, all those skeletons.
They say, "I don’t know why I told you,"
"Don’t tell anyone."

They aren’t pretty—but they’re not ugly either.
In my imaginary chest, I store them,
Only to release them quietly to the heavens above.

I am a secret keeper—nothing more, nothing less.
Ears open to the brightest joys, the darkest griefs.
Knowing the quiet thoughts of the heart.
My mouth, the locked doorway
to a chest buried deep within—
never to see the light of day.

Some say it might open.
Some say it won’t.
It’s their choice—to trust me
with the secrets of their hearts.

But who do I trust with mine?
I too have skeletons in my closet.
And I can’t let them out.
Is there anyone out there… for me?

The Eternal Waltz of Seasons

 Nature’s endless dance never ceases to inspire. Each season brings its own rhythm and song — a reminder of life’s quiet cycles and ever-shifting moods. This prose poem is my small tribute to that eternal waltz.

The display of colors, climates, and moods changes as summer follows spring and winter follows autumn, becoming a beautiful song.

A change in season brings about a change in nature.

Winter, in all her white glory, slows the pace of life and growth, stills the activity of lakes and rivers, binding rain and snow to the ground in an icy blanket until spring arrives.

Spring arrives with the warmth of the sun, lifting the icy spell. Frozen streams and rivers are freed. The land, once barren and cold, now bursts with green and life.

Summer welcomes warmer days and shorter nights. Many enjoy the long summer days in the sun, while summer nights open to the waltzing of fireflies in the breeze and twinkling stars in the night sky.

With autumn’s arrival, the days grow cold and trees shed their summer greens for golden-orange and red leaves. Whispers of winter drift on the autumn winds, and as the last leaf of autumn drops, so too does the first snow of winter.

A never-ending cycle of seasons.

Echoes of Forgotten Heroes

There are stories that slip between the cracks of time — quiet songs and forgotten names that once shaped entire worlds. This poem is for them, the unseen and the unremembered, who live on in echoes and whispers.

Unseen words, forgotten heroes.
Whispered melodies, lost tunes.
Forgotten legends — heavy, yet precious.
Tales remembered by firelight —
Days of glory, honor, and valor,
Now nothing more than fading remnants.
Like holding an old keepsake,
Whispering echoes in silent reflections —
Treasures for those who know their worth.

"Some songs echo even in the quietest halls of memory."

Who Are You?

There are souls we feel we've always known, even if we've never met them. In the quiet space between dreams and waking, their presence is both comforting and achingly bittersweet. This poem captures that hidden ache.

Night comes, I fall asleep, and dream

In my dreams, I see you

You are always there

Who are you?

Your face obscured, but your presence familiar

Your touch is as real as though you are right beside me

I feel like I have known you my whole life

Your voice — though I never truly hear it — I know it to be warm, deep, and rich.

Who are you?

Every night, a different dream, but you remain the same

A constant in the ever-changing land of dreams

Some nights, you hold me close, encased in strong arms, protected and loved.

Some nights, we hold hands, stroll aimlessly, or simply laugh and play.

But some nights, like tonight, I lie curled into you, my head on your chest, 

Your heart beats beneath, filling my ears. 

My arms wrapped across your waist, anchoring. 

Legs entangled with yours, resting on the coffee table

Your fingers run absently through my hair, 

a soothing rhythm while you watch the TV

You give a chaste kiss every time I stir

But your face remains obscure when I look at you

It is these nights, the morning after, when I would awake to reality and, 

with longing, to realise that you were a dream.

All these nights with you are bittersweet —
as painful to remember as they are to lose.

I am plagued with questions that make no sense...

Where are you?

Why do I miss you so much?

What is this yearning and longing I feel?

Who are you?....

My days are steeped in longing and melancholy,
missing a part of my soul — a half I’ve never met.

Questions that will never be answered.

What Have I Become!?

There are moments when we look into the mirror and see something unrecognizable staring back. This poem is a descent into that chilling realization — a confession of hunger, guilt, and the question: What have I become?

When the wind calls and darkness falls

Who then is the night?

Wolves howling

Demons prowling-

Is this the end?

I open my mouth and a silent scream escapes

Eyes roll to the back of my head.

Can you hear my cry!?

I can taste blood on my lips...such sweetness.

My victim lies unconscious while my hear pounds and ears ring as I gnaw my fingers.

What have I done!? Will he awake?

Bile rises from deep within,

choking back tears of remorse as despair clings like a second skin.

It wasn't suppose to be like this!

 A voice—my voice—laments, pleadingly.

But the monster, the ravenous beast with hunger and thirst yearning to be filled

could not be caged.

Oh God! the taste of blood holds me captive, it sings to me....

Mo sheinneadair. My singer.

The melody of his blood binds me, and still—

What have I become!?

        

Introduction

Welcome to The Weaver’s Page.
This is where the poetry lives—messy, aching, blooming, and sometimes sharp-edged.
I write what I feel too deeply to say out loud.
Here, you’ll find pieces of me stitched together in metaphor and mood, often touched by darkness, longing, or myth.
Not every poem is pretty. But they are all real.
If you’ve ever felt like your silence had a voice, or your pain needed shape—this space is for you.