In the Cradle
Forged in the cradle of crumbling stone,
The river murmured like an elder's song,
A silver thread through earth’s old bones,
Unraveling what never should belong.
Like lightning shaped in liquid skin,
It laced through logs and shattered pride,
No war was waged against the din,
Just gentle strength that slipped beside.
Over time, I’ve clung to rigid dreams,
Iron branches in a storm’s domain;
But rivers teach what silence means,
That bending doesn't mean you're slain.
Wounds I wore like rusted chains
Became smooth pebbles in its tide;
The river wore them down with rain
Until they shimmered, purified.
Even stars reflected in its face
Seemed less fixed than I had thought;
The current showed a softer grace,
To lose control is not to rot.
Roots now sprout where rage once grew,
Fed by waters I once feared.
And in that flow, I saw what’s true—
Resilience is what I've steered.
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