October 21, 2026
BY Jenni Astramowicz1
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You entered the room with maps drawn,
arrogant as a surveyor measuring light.
Now the screen is a blank white grid,
a glowing desert offering no signal.
A month spent gathering wild sparks
pages of smoke, no heat.
Only the title remains, sharp as a compass needle
pointing everywhere at once.
Outside the canopy, the algorithm hums,
feeding on lost momentum,
offering endless loops while the trees close in.
The terror is not the dark
it is the quiet shadow of the page
waiting to see if you will stop.
Do not lie down on the pine needles.
Do not wait for the phantom axe.
The only way out of the thicket
is to bleed ink into the dirt
until the path remembers your boots.
October 2026 Poetry Project
Day 21 of 31
