FOR THOSE WHO REFUSE THE GOMMAGE

Every expedition
leaves

a story behind.

Clips that made you laugh. Details everyone missed. Hard-won wisdom from the road.

A Letter to Those Who Never Returned

William Afton Poetry 21 September 2026

I left a letter by the shore, For those who sailed in years before. Its pages held the words unsaid, The dreams we shared, the tears we shed. I wrote of streets you used to know, Of summer rain and winter snow, Of little things that still remain, A window bright against the rain. The baker opens at first light, The lanterns burn throughout the night. Your favorite chair is by the wall, Your name is spoken after all. I wish that I could tell you how The city looks so different now. The years have passed, the seasons turned, Yet still your memory has burned. And if the sea could carry words, Beyond the clouds, beyond the birds, I'd send this letter through the blue, And hope the wind would bring it you. But paper sinks, and oceans keep Their ancient promises beneath the deep. So here I stand, where waves depart, And fold your memory in my heart. **Though you may never come back home, Your stories mean we're not alone.**

If the Canvas Could Speak

William Afton Poetry 21 September 2026

If the canvas could speak tonight, What tales would rise from painted light? Would mountains whisper names once known, Would rivers mourn the seeds unsown? Would every fallen expedition Become a song, a new tradition? Would colors gather in the rain To paint the faces lost again? Perhaps the stars would tell us why Some dreams are born beneath this sky, Why beauty lingers next to grief, Why every ending feels so brief. I'd ask the gold upon the trees To carry all our memories. I'd ask the wind to hold them near, The laughter lost, the whispered fear. And when the final brushstroke fell, What story would the colors tell? Of broken swords and battles won, Or quiet mornings in the sun? Perhaps they'd paint a simple scene: A field of flowers, soft and green, Where those who wandered far and wide Could rest beneath the evening tide. No numbers written in the stone, No distant roads to walk alone. Just one last sky, both calm and bright, And stars appearing in the night. **For if the canvas held our days, I'd paint our love in endless ways.**

The Number on the Monolith

William Afton Poetry 21 September 2026

Upon the stone, a number glows, And through the streets, a silence flows. The city watches, still and pale, As morning lifts its silver veil. A mother holds her child once more, A father waits beside the door. The bells ring out, the candles fade, Another year, another shade. But far beyond the city's light, A company prepares to fight. With trembling hands and steady eyes, They walk beneath the painted skies. No promise waits beyond the sea, No certain path to victory. Yet still they sail toward the unknown, To face the hand that marks the stone. And should their names be lost to time, Their footsteps buried under thyme, Let every dawn remember then The ones who dared to hope again. For even when the darkness falls, And silence fills the empty halls, One truth survives the passing years: The brave are those who walk through fear.