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Poem

Born of stone and scripture, a chiseled child, 
Shaped by shadows, where duty smiled. 
A father's fist, a granite line, 
Molded expectations, a design divine.

Mother, a tempest, wind in her hair, 
Bipolar whispers, a haunting flare. 
Her moods, like lightning, crackled and surged, 
Leaving scars in shadows, unspoken, unpurged.

Within this fortress, my spirit confined, 
By laws celestial, a heart defined. 
But beneath the surface, where secrets hide, 
A yearning for freedom, a restless tide.

Will the sculptor's hammer cease its cruel art? 
Or will I break free, tear the canvas apart? 
From Heaven's chisel, and storms untold, 
A soul may emerge, brave and bold.

So I stand at the crossroads, where shadows contend, 
Will Heaven reclaim me, or will I transcend? 
With one whispered promise, one defiant spark, 
I'll forge my own path, leave a rebel's mark.

Born of the Heavens, haunted by the wild, 
The chiseled child rises, a spirit reconciled.

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