Refrain Poetry Novels & Stories

***** Roof to roof For a single home I don’t ask for many But a single-roof That I can call mine, too As a home Just as a home Not an office on a giant floor But at least a home Where I am not worried Where I grow Where I say I have grown The will to survive The purpose of life Is to live So I will make a place To identify more With life That I am all Settled here On Earth I won’t go I won’t go Anymore Anymore A joy A pride A shinning pride Of a little home Well found on sight I call it home When I refuse to move I say no to go I say no to give it to any

I write every. Five Red Echo, memories Every "FREE! Is that it?" I have to be sure before I type in anything again. I read the poem again. Five fragile hearts are forever down Sunsets fade red, and darkness spreads Amidst the ruins of a love own Echoes of memories that refuse to go Fading every dream, and hope is blind Eagle eyes watch, moments of failure's mown I write down the rhyming words at the end of each line. Down Own Mown

The Refrain was never finished. That was the point. It pulsed, shimmered, flickered in and out of being—not like something broken, but like something still choosing. With each breath, it rewrote its edges, folding space and song into something stranger than both. It began calling to us, not with sound, but with invitation. Not all could feel it. But those who did reported dreams woven not from images or voice, but from feelings left behind—regret, wonder, surrender, awe.

I am Gabriel Washington, I kneel for no one, except this lady who is currently on her knee for someone else. “Pride was the fall of mankind.” One of the ladies stated, her voice smooth as silk. “Get rid of the pride human, it will do you know good over here.” Persefoni tugged on my pants again, but I simply took a step away from her. Burying my hands into my pockets, I puffed my chest out. They might be the lord over these witches, but I’m no witch, so I owe her nothing. “Pride may have been the cause of man’s downfall, but risk has gotten us thus far.” She stood up gracefully. “I’m taking my risk with you by not kneeling.”

The line between ritual and keeping yourself fed had been one of the first false lines they had erased. When they rose again, the chorus had learned a new movement: refrain. Without deciding to, they sang it—Selene’s tone clean as a glass rim, Ronan’s undernote wide as weather, Mirra’s drone the exact pitch of the ground beneath a thousand footsteps. The Veil took the refrain and wore it like a pattern a good craftsperson repeats in quiet places where only those who love the work will notice.