When the Night is Soft

When the night is soft and shadows sigh, I gather pieces of who I've been, Underneath a silver-breathing sky— The broken heart, the fractured skin. I’ve worn the weight of wordless ache, A cloak of silence stitched by stars, Still I rise, though pathways break, Barefoot tracing memory’s scars. The moon bends low with lantern light, A silent guide for those who roam, It whispers softly through the night: You are not lost. You’re simply home. Though darkness clings and sorrow hums, A quiet bloom of hope appears, It roots itself where heartbreak drums, A fragile pulse beyond the tears. I am not whole, yet still I move, Each step a tender, whispered prayer, A testament that I’ll improve— That dawn awaits beyond despair. The dawn, she paints with golden breath, A canvas born from darkest hue, Reminding me that even death Can birth beginnings, fresh and new. So softly now, I rise again, With hands reborn from ash and dust, A heart once marred begins to mend— In morning’s light, in quiet trust.