We Hold the Line


We Hold the Line

With Stillness that Listens

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Entering the silence of the day
With darkness falling around us
wherever we go.

We carry the hush like a lantern,
glow softening the edges of thought,
Each breath a step deeper
into the unseen.

Drumbeats murmur in the distance,
Songs of ancient lineage
inviting us further
into the unknown.

We hold the Line.

We allow ourselves to witness something greater —
Others are clawing their way through
strongholds of yesteryears,
and Mother rebirthing
as it unfolds.

We hold the Line.

Laughter breaks out —
a sudden spark,
as if we’ve become a whole village
carrying on a debate
as old as time.

Singing to a new day,
observing both sides of every coin.
Singing a brightened heart back into life,
beating in rhythm
with the natural pulse of the universe.

We hold the Line.

And when the silence returns,
We do not fear it.
We become it —
a stillness that listens,
a breath that remembers,
a light that remains.

~Ani Po


Much gratitude for this week’s prompt. Very timely in the collective vibes that we are channeling through. Thank you, Paroma Sen and Scrittura, for holding the line.


Much gratitude to those who take the time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of themselves to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and, more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

Something in the Blood


Something in the Blood

Ignited Fire in the belly

We didn’t come this far to bow — to silence nor sorrow.
There’s something in the blood — feral, unyielding — a rhythm that refuses to hush.

Every setback taught us — tensile snap of bending without breaking.
We’ve swallowed storms — worn grief like armor, and still — we rise,
cracked open but luminous.

We speak in the dialect of scar tissue — not bitter, but fluent
in what it means to keep breathing — air burning thin.

Look —

the horizon doesn’t wait for permission.

It erupts.

So we chase — fists full of light — mouths full of names we refuse to forget.
Hope isn’t soft — it’s sinew.

It’s bootprints in frozen mud — a pulse beneath the rubble — a shout through teeth clenched against the wind.

We are not fragile things.

We are forged.

And tonight — stars blinking in approval — dragging our stories,
still burning — into the next dawn. Something of — fiery rhythm — Blood Remains.

~Ani Po


Much gratitude to those who take the time to read, ponder, and allow the inner workings of themselves to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and, more importantly, the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.

Joseph Lieungh

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash