Peter Atherton Poet Free verse

The Quiet Architecture of Being

I built a small cathedral
out of the hours no one saw.
Not of stone,
but of the quiet ache
that gathers when a person learns
to live with their own echo.

Inside it,
the light behaves differently.
It bends around old memories,
touches the soft edges
of the things I never said,
and warms them
as if forgiveness were a sunrise
slowly remembering how to rise.

Some days,
I am only a doorway
waiting to be opened.
Other days,
I am the whole sky
trying to hold itself together
while the wind insists
on teaching me how to let go.

But tonight,
I am simply human
a pulse,
a breath,
a small lantern of hope
carried through the dark
by hands that have learned
the art of not giving up.

And if you pass me
on one of your quieter evenings,
you might see it
that faint shimmer
of someone rebuilding themselves
not loudly,
not perfectly,
but honestly.

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