The Shadow explores the metaphysical intersection of nature and the spirit, observing the mystery within the 'terrifying beauty' of the journey.
Dispatches from the periphery; the weight of silence and the beauty found in the dark. These pieces lean into the mystery, the terrifying beauty, and the things that move just out of sight.
A shard of night up in the sky,
Releases its grasp, resting no more,
Wings that whisper, built of slate,
Echoes from silence,
Breaking through shadows.
Eyes of polished obsidian,
target the world below.
Each movement enticing,
Building up steam,
Knowing that life will soon fall unseen.
Then the moment, a plunge so deep,
A blur, a flash, of life’s retreat,
Talons outstretched, hooks of bone,
Thankfully swift, to that now known.
Silent trap, clutches, retreats,
Rising through moonlight,
Vanishes in stillness among the vast blue,
A terrifying beauty, relinquishes its jewel.
A piece of undone light.
It moves across the garden like a thought
too delicate to finish. Not landing,
but simply touching the air
where the lavender is warmest.
The slow, silent arc of the wing,
a whisper of deep yellow and smoke,
that doesn't hurry,
doesn't know a deadline.
And for just a moment,
everything else dissolves.
Just the hush of its passage,
a dream you almost caught
before your eyes were fully open.
She tips her head back,
the sky a vast, watercolor canvas stretching forever.
It's not just the blue she sees, or the lazy drift of vapor trails,
but the shimmering outlines of what could be.
The warm air brushes her face,
a whisper of all that's possible,
as her own soft breath
mingles with the vastness,
each exhale a silent release
into the ocean of tomorrow.
In that boundless quiet,
where the edges of earth blur into stars,
dreams aren't fragile whispers.
They're vibrant seeds,
planted deep in the cosmic soil,
already reaching, yearning,
for the sun of her becoming.
This breath is your own,
not borrowed, not held hostage.
Stop folding yourself like a
letter addressed to someone
else's perception.
You are not a series of perfect bends.
If it's real love, you shouldn't
have to contort yourself at all.
It's the space between your teeth,
the sound of your own quiet hum
that requires no audience.
You are the untidy knot
left exactly as it was pulled.
A single breath.
The twisted strands ignite as smoke stains dance to a hypnotic song.
Crimson and gold.
The wax bleeds, a steady grief.
Each drip a silent promise within this glass cage.
A gust, a quiver.
In defiance it stands strong,
a beating heart, rooted.
The patience grows thin.
Smote, ash and dust.
Its light, a final, weary sigh.
The pooling of wishes,
a graveyard of dreams.
Unanswered. Unsent.
A thread upon my palm,
I stitch the lines—
life, head, heart, fate.
Each one a breath
of what I’ve been given,
where I’ve been.
While the major strings
remain tightly twisted,
the soft, faint braids slowly unspool.
Choices, actions, a mind transposing,
a subtle knot for the seers to find.
Though each hand holds
a different story,
they are woven together,
two strands of a single journey,
distinct yet forever entwined.
Brandi Lynn is a mythic‑metaphysical artist and writer whose work merges shadow integration, neurodivergent magic, and the sovereign feminine. She creates the three realms of the Sovereign Triad — radiant, feral, and untamed — through pen, ink, and ancient‑inspired verse.
Copyright © 2025-2026 Brandi Lynn
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