Antidote For A Troubled Heart
I walk alone where the frost bites deep,
Where silence howls and shadows creep.
The world forgot me—left me bare,
A ghost among the living air.
I cry, but echoes mock my plea,
No arms, no voice, no sanctuary.
Yet still I breathe, though breath feels thin—
A whisper of defiance within.
The antidote is not a cure,
Not warmth, not love, not something pure.
It’s grit in the soul, it’s blood in the frost,
It’s counting the wins when all feels lost.
It’s memory—faint, but still it clings,
Of lullabies and angel wings.
It’s forgiving myself for the scars I wear,
For trusting hearts that weren’t there.
It’s dreaming in ruins, painting the ash,
It’s dancing alone in a world so brash.
It’s stillness that speaks when no one will,
A quiet strength, a sacred chill.
So let them turn, let them forget—
I am the storm they haven’t met.
My heart may ache, but it won’t die,
I rise each time I’m told to cry.
The antidote? It’s not their grace.
It’s finding fire in empty space.
It’s me. It’s now. It’s every start—
The pulse that beats in a troubled heart.
Copyright ©
Michael Fulkerson
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