Quiet Turns
Each morning drifts like mist—
soft, uncertain,
but somewhere in its hush,
I feel the weight
of something turning dark nearby.
I once imagined
this place would be still,
that the walls would not echo
with things unsaid.
But peace, it seems,
is not something we always share.
Patterns repeat—
whispers circling like wind in a cage.
The days loop like shadows
on the same old path,
a wheel that spins
but never arrives.
Solitude sings a softer song.
There, I breathe.
There, I unfold
without needing to bend
for anyone's gaze.
Some birds only perch
when the branch gives them fruit.
They vanish with the silence
and forget the hands
that sheltered them from the storm.
So I walk—
quietly,
gratefully,
far from noise that pretends to care.
And I hold the light
only I can carry.
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