requiem
it's hard to hear you with all the silence of your absence
taking shape in front of me like a forgotten memory,
a shadow, a shade of a color I do not know.
the world will disappear and take me with it,
and all the chaos that once was will be nothing more than a whistle in the distance,
its mess greatly reduced, its intensity fading and dissipating
and making way to clear blue skies.
and someday, before I die, I'll walk outside in the blue hour
and let the monarchs pick at me, take my pieces away,
eat whatever's left of me, I'll let them take me with them
and at the time before night, when the world is falling asleep,
I'll be awakened to the sound of your prayer,
and you'll see me, bathed in divine light, gold dripping from my body;
a requiem for a dream.
runaways
the angels are coming for us tonight
but no one told them we're not home.
vultures won't find what they came looking for:
we ran out the back door without looking over our shoulders, taking nothing with us,
didn't care if we let the windows wide open, any secrets out.
doorbell rings and no one's home to answer, and no one has been home for a long time.
we followed the direction and guidance of the stars,
barefoot through the long, damp grass,
galaxies swirling in our eyes, gleaming,
glinting against the moonlight dawning on us.
no big revelation. no divine intervention.
rainbow clouds
in another life we are streaks of color in the sky,
light that travels through the clouds.
we connect, collide, come through,
we become a spiral and the world stares in awe at our art;
we paint the sky with colors the world has yet to discover
and we spill from the same sky, we fall apart, we rise again,
we become a portal to another dimension, a place where broken dreams go,
we house airplanes and flying trains taking fragments of people away.
people wish upon us, hoping to see us again someday,
we are so beautiful that the world stands still and stares at our mess.
time takes a stance with us, against the impending doom of night.
we become a sunset as the sky threatens to turn the page
and leave our collage behind.
inevitably, our colors dull and we break apart, dissipate, fade,
as the shining, blinding sun is killed by its rival, the moon,
and its blood drips from the sky, it turns it burning red,
a crimson almost blackish color, intense blue, an ocean, an abyss.
we disappear behind the stars and moonlight trickles from our wounds
we will never be seen again.
in another life, you and i are together,
and we don't know darkness, the sky is only ours
(we shine together as one, iridescently, infinitely).
Free Falling
I wish it wouldn't matter whether we fly or fall,
whether we spread our wings or they weigh us down
if only it could be you and me in the sky,
high above the clouds, rivaling the light of the stars;
to me you are brighter.
It does matter. It matters now, but perhaps it won't matter forever
whether we learn to use our wings or give up on even trying.
They look at us. The world is watching. It's too risky.
They stare and their stares burn. They get stuck on us and we're unable to break free.
They want our wings. Angelical, pristine, pure. They want our chastity.
Our innocence. We're too divine.
That is the one thing we're unwilling to give up. Freedom means nothing next to it.
They see us as a threat. We could fly away at any moment,
leave the constellations behind, travel to another galaxy.
It's their threats that cut our throats. It's their silence.
It matters whether we speak or don't, whether we leap or plunge;
I wouldn't mind free falling.
Our Love is a City in Ruins
Our love is a city in ruins,
light filters through all the decayed buildings,
yet there's looming darkness in the corners of this city.
It lays abandoned, untouched; only time is allowed inside,
but history has been made here, it's so abundant.
There's the condensation, all the dust piled up, the ash,
and still life blooms here, patches of grass that spring from the earth,
as if showing, as if it's proof not all of it here is dead or dying.
It's so silent and still, the wind plays a haunting tune,
a harsh, ragged sound, like wailing in pain. Echoes.
It's all been destroyed, it's inhabitable.
It used to be such a rich, prosperous city, ideal in every way
until the war took it all away, stole the future. It attacked the city mercilessly
until there was nothing but a death toll too high to ignore,
until every building was torn and collapsed and unfit for protection.
It was your doing. It was you lining up the troops and setting everything on fire.
It was you giving orders to kill everyone and murder hope for survival.
I tried to do the what was best for my people and ordered retreat, not picking up a fight,
allowing you to do unilateral damage. It was unsalvageable.
There was no way I could win against you when I still believed in us.
I fled. I escaped. I urged everyone to leave with me,
but my heart would not relent. It would not give in to abandonment.
I pleaded and begged and implored but I could not force it. It wouldn't leave with me.
So, after there wasn't anything else I could do to make it change its ways, and believe me I tried,
I buried it in the middle of the city.
And it lays to rest peacefully still where it died. It never recovered.
Sol Segarra is an emerging poet working to establish a presence online. She writes surreal, image-driven pieces that explore relationships, identity, and impermanence. It often blends cosmic and natural imagery, such as skies, light, wings, and transformation, to examine themes like longing, escape, and the tension between freedom and external pressure.
While she hasn't published any formal collections yet, she regularly drafts and refines her work in order to build confidence in her voice and learn how to reach a wider audience without overcomplicating her style. She continues to write consistently and explore opportunities to connect with readers and other writers in the online poetry community.
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