Lily at the Roots
Lily at the Roots
Today I walked into the lonely house of myself.
That is where my inward journey started.
The doors were heavy with cold and the dust of sorrow.
The windows were locked and rusted,
as if they had seen too many storms
and decided to shut forever.
The floor was cracked and scattered,
covered in dry autumn leaves that whispered of grief.
The walls wore black spider webs like old scars.
Muddy frames held sad paintings behind broken glass.
Worries had settled there like grey ash.
Everything felt broken, dusty and dark.
It was clear no one had come here in a long time.
I climbed the stairs.
Under my feet they felt like desert sand,
shifting and trying to pull me down.
Then in the middle of that grief-filled room
I saw it, a large beautiful tree.
It stood there like a stranger, like a quiet ghost.
Its branches were bare with no leaves,
but still its presence caught me.
I went close and touched it gently.
And it gave my soul peace.
It gave me back a piece of happiness.
At its roots grew a white lily.
The white lily, a lantern in the dark.
The white lily, hope with soft petals.
The white lily, purity learning to grow from pain.
Its scent was calmness. Its presence was healing.
That is when I understood.
This is the light inside me.
This is my courage, my strength, my growth.
Yes there is grief in me. Yes there is pain.
But my soul is still calm. Still bright. Still strong.
I am healing.
And the white lily will remain,
proof that even in a broken house
something pure can still bloom.
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