The Anvil of Stillness

They shout for a piece of my mind— I offer the quiet, forged and cool, Not shrapnel, not wildfire, not the grind Of teeth on bone, but a deeper tool: A breath that holds when the structure sways, A root that grips when the landslide calls. Peace isn’t the absence of the blaze, But the choosing of water when fury sprawls. It’s not some island untouched by gales, But the craft in the sail when the tempests roar. Not empty hours or flawless tales, But the latch on the door when the jackals score. It’s the weight in my stance, not the fist I raise, The ember contained, not the forest fire thrown. The deliberate step through the judgmental maze, The fertile soil where the unknown is sown. I’ve tempered this calm on sorrow’s wheel, Quenched its heat in the midnight well. Peace isn’t a future I wait to feel— It’s resting deep where the fractures dwell, A mosaic made from the shattered pane, Still gathering light where the breaks are clear. So if you demand a piece of my brain, Look past the words I might engineer: Find it in the pause before the sound, In the way doubt is laid like stones in a stream. In the "perhaps" where the "must" was found, In the gentle seam where the wild things teem. I speak not to shatter, but to fuse— Peace isn't a retreat; it's the ground I choose.