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.
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