I did not turn away
as the world cried louder.
I turned inward—
to where the flame is still a whisper,
and silence does not beg for mercy.
There is a kind of love
that does not falter
when the hands are empty.
It waits.
It listens.
It does not name itself.
I am made of that.
While others speak of seasons,
I press my hands
into the soil of things
that cannot be proven.
Hope,
perhaps.
Or something quieter.
Let the sky split.
Let the noise rise.
I will not rush the blooming.
What is real
needs no witness
but the heart that remains.
More on poetry:
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