Can One Poem Heal a Broken Memory?

Can one poem mend

what time has left in splinters?

A memory—frayed at the edges,

its colors fading like an old photograph

left too long in the sun.

I hold it carefully,

afraid that even breathing too close

might make it crumble.

But a poem is a soft thing.

It does not force or pry;

it sits beside you,

like an old friend

who knows the weight of silence.

Line by line,

it brushes away the dust of sorrow.

It cups the broken edges in its hands,

filling the cracks with light.

A poem does not change the past,

but it changes the way we carry it—

turning sharp shards into smooth stones

you can hold without bleeding.

And maybe,

just maybe,

the wound you thought would never close

becomes a scar you can trace

without flinching—

a reminder of both the pain

and the healing.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi