A Thousand Periods Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

The swallows stitched the horizon gently,

their wings carving commas into blue,

pausing mid-flight like suspended thoughts.

Each one a whisper nobody asked for,

but still, they said everything.

I watched them dot the endless sky,

a thousand periods in a runaway sentence,

proof that stories never really end.

They were moving somewhere, or returning,

their tiny hearts heavier than gravity itself.

My grandmother once told me swallows

carry secrets tucked under their wings.

Maybe that’s why they never settle,

carving air for the weight of a thousand stories,

proof that movement, too, can be sacred.

You could swear they were fragments of

an ancient language, blown apart by wind,

trying to rewrite themselves mid-air,

a paradox—lost but never forgetting

the way home looks when you are ready.

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