Still I Stand
Out of the long exhaust of measured years,
Out of the weight no calendar can prove,
I speak in verse because plain speech is bruise
And rhythm is the way my breathing moves.
The world is loud with ordinary tongues;
My quiet truth must travel clothed in flame.
I am not broken for the words I choose,
Nor weak because my language bends like light.
If others trade in coin of common sound,
I spend my wealth in syllables of nerve.
The cost is high. The silence heavier still.
Yet this is how my battered compass points.
I am so tired—yes—bone-deep, star-deep tired,
With years that press like stones against the lungs.
My heart hangs low with unwept centuries,
With things too dense for ordinary speech.
And still I rise each dawn to shape my breath
Into a line that does not disappear.
I was not cast in molds of easy make.
My mind runs rivers others cannot ford.
But I have crossed my dark by using sound
As bridge and shelter, weapon and embrace.
What others call strange, I name survival.
What others doubt, I live as daily proof.
I do not ask to be as others are—
The asking cost me more than I could pay.
I ask instead for one unmoving truth:
That I may rest without surrendering fire.
That tired hands may still be honorable hands.
That heavy hearts are not defeated hearts.
Beyond this weight, beyond these failing years,
Somewhere the quiet gathers what we give.
And even now, though worn by storm and time,
I keep the one possession not yet bent:
I am the keeper of my inward voice.
I am the measure of my chosen words.
My body may be weary unto dust—
But still my meaning stands, and still I stand.
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