Recognizing Your Own Personal Growth Through Your Writing
I thought my words were stars, unshaken,
But they were only lamps in mist—
Too bright with pride, too quick to waken,
Too eager for a fleeting tryst.
Now softer rhythms touch the page,
They move like rivers, slow and deep,
A gentleness comes with quiet age,
And truth no longer stirs from sleep.
The vanity of sounding grand
Has slipped like ash between my hands,
I lean instead on earth and sky,
And write the way the roses die.
If I have grown, it is by loss—
By setting down the crown, the gloss,
Until my words are bare, yet whole,
Like light that falls and heals the soul.
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