The Art of Becoming: Shaped By Sacrifice

The tender strokes of becoming, Are found atop of agony and loss, In the heart of suffering, a seed is sown, It's the bud from which I have grown, ever blooming. Here I stand in front of the mirror, My reflection forward in time self so clear, His eyes bear the stories of resistance, He whispers, "Thank you," to the echoes of persistence. Each sacrifice, a chisel to the soul, Carving out a being, from the unformed whole. Pain, the artist, shapes us in its grip, From nothingness to purpose, on life's canvas we flip. In him I see the man I could become, With gratitude in his gaze, he acknowledges me, The sacrifices made, the suffering endured, Crafted his form into someone that’s truly free. As the Taoists say, we're an un-carved block, Enduring life's trials, against time's ticking clock. We transform, reshape, and make anew, From formless beginnings, to true virtue. I bear the marks of suffering, the etchings of sacrifice, I've become the cup, in which my fate rests. I am now of use, of purpose, and might, A testament to endurance, a beacon of strong willed protest.