Unfolds of Guilty
In the midst of my own storm
unnamed, unspoken, unnoticed –
the silence is deafening, unbearable,
yet too sacred to be shattered.
Desire presented himself to me, softly,
I turned away and did not return.
Not from fear nor sorrow,
but for love —
for the discipline of stillness.
I embrace the ache
over its guilty sweetness,
I chose to cradle the pain,
so others may dream.
Time unfolded its wings above me,
hovering over my heavy crown.
Not rushing nor judging,
just shifting the shape of my feelings.
And when the ache softened,
the silence slowly started to whisper.
I saw the truth:
The wound had always been my gift.
Not for glory
neither for praise.
But for peace
that blooms in restraint.
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