A stubborn beast
with its feet firmly planted
in the muddy field
of my own errors.

Anguish is a dense fog
that swirls, blinds, and steals
the recognizable features
of my own soul.

The birdsong was a distant,
inaudible hum,
and fingers brushed
against petals
that had once been vibrant
but were now dull and quiet.

Indeed, forgiveness is a river
that churns through rocky terrain,
a constant murmur
against jagged edges,
finds the yielding ground,
and forges a new path.

Or rain, a gentle veil
dissolving the grime
that adheres to my skin,
a clean canvas waiting
for a fresh day.

Seasons change, my friend,
leaves unfold, then fall,
and the only thing that
accompanies this long journey
is the steady, slow rhythm
of our own two feet—
possibly a shimmering wand.

Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.