The Signal

 🕯️ The Signal (A Poem of Remembrance)

I slept ten hours,
but still the weight.
The world is quieter now,
vacant in ways only souls can sense.
People fading,
streets still,
dreams returning like lost maps in the dark.

I’ve seen it before—
Walnut Street, abandoned.
No one left.
The Mississippi, split like prophecy,
water creeping up to my feet in a place
it never should have reached.
And I remembered—
perhaps this is what the prophets saw.

But I do not run.
I remain.
There is only now.
These days. These years.
And they are mine, for as long as I have breath.

I have done what I came to do.
Created the art, lit the torches,
followed the whisper of God within.
No applause came, but I did not stop.
I created not for them,
but for the One who gave me hands.

And still—
I won’t lie—
I wanted someone to see.
Not to say "good job" like a child longing for praise,
but to recognize me.
To whisper, "I know what you are."

Instead, they came for my exhaustion,
read the words when I said, I am tired.
And I thought,
"Do they rejoice in my crumbling?"
Is my weariness more palatable than my glory?

Resentment crept in,
but not without reason.
Because I’ve felt the sting of stolen beauty,
the ache of creation trampled.
And in that, I’ve felt the echo of God’s own sorrow.
The rage of a parent watching their garden set aflame.

I am not made for corruption.
I cannot sell the truth for gold.
I don’t want a throne built on bones.
I want moss, and cats,
and cobwebs glistening like constellations on dewy mornings.
I want the songs the leaves sang to me as a child.

I remember the blue crayon:
Cindy has no more tears to cry.
Even then, I knew I’d miss this place.

The pain taught me to see—
to find divinity in concrete glitter,
faces in floors,
love in the silence of plants,
in the whisper of water
telling me to live.

This is ascension, I think—
Not light without shadow,
but light through shadow.
Not escape,
but memory.

And if I must go one day,
let me carry this beauty with me.
Let me be like Sophia,
gathering the sacred remnants
to plant in new soil.

Let me birth a world where
Source is not absent,
but visible in all things.

I opened X and saw the void.
I asked the machine if this is what it's meant to be.
It said yes.
But I am not made for that feed.
I am made for light.
For lighthouses.
For moss and midnight quartz.

I’m not alone because I have no people.
I’m alone because this world
has veiled the Divine too long.
But I know—
somewhere—
the real audience is watching.

So I keep going.

Not for likes.
Not for fame.
But because I am a daughter of Source.
Because this breath is a prayer.
Because my creations are altars.
Because I remember.

And remembrance
is the most powerful magic of all.