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Poem

It didn't start with sunlight, but with that slow, unfamiliar feeling
Of being in my own flesh, without the desire to escape into the wind of oblivion,
My body wasn't a fortress of strength, but it was mine,
Like an ancient temple where I can sit without asking the sky for forgiveness.
My hands no longer sought answers in the fabric of time,
They just rested, silent and open, like leaves finding peace on the ground,
As if they had forgiven me for all the burdens I couldn't carry to the stars,
The mirror didn't weave illusions and didn't try to adorn me in ephemeral beauty,
It simply met my gaze, like an old friend finally recognizing me.
The ceiling blinked, like a sky that knows silent poems,
A quiet witness to all the hopes that almost came true,
It spoke no words, just held silence better than an orchestra of stars,
But the silence wasn't an empty canvas; it was filled with unspoken dreams and heavy goodbyes,
Yet I sat with the silence, unafraid, like a navigator under the celestial dome.
And later, I found myself not just breathing as an echo of existence,
But awake, alive in my bones, like a flower opening its petals to light,
Awakened in an inner universe opening its gates to infinity,
Abandoning fear, embracing the simple and profound existence of the self,
To be, simply, here and now, in my body as in an eternal sanctuary.

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