Raw Madness
In secret gardens, far from sight,
I shed the masks I wear in light.
No eyes to judge, no voice to guide,
Just whisper of the self inside.
The whisper which wishes to reside in every heart,
i am the resonating echo of that restless void.
I wander, seeking light in the darkness,
I've heard I am the source of that very light.
Since I began to bear the weight of suffering,
Life has turned somewhat sweet, dear soul.
The poet's treasure is his precious grief,
That's why I weave garlands of tears.
In hidden paths, our souls unwind,
The tender parts, the raw, unkind.
The fears we guard, the dreams we hide,
All rise to meet the open sky.
Who are we then, beneath the stars,
Without the weight of who we are?
In secret gardens, free, we stand,
The truest self, with open hands.
No need for words, no need for form,
In quiet stillness, we transform.
We are the seed, the root, the flame,
Untouched by pride, untouched by name.
In that still place, where shadows bend,
We find ourselves, and there we mend.
For in the garden, we are whole—
A timeless truth, our deepest soul.
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