In the Heart of Change

Buried under

the brittle breezes

of bygone days,

I can feel the fractures.

of former selves

splintering in echoes

of almosts and never-was.



The past clings

like a phantom limb,

itching with instinct,

aching for anchors

long gone—

but I am sailing,

held by tides

that turn without asking.

Unraveling,

unfurling,

undoing the stitches

of stories

I do not tell anymore.

I watch the fabric fall apart,

the threads slipping

through calloused fingers,

once clenched too tightly.



And what is a soul?

If not a sculpture

of seasons shifting?

What is a heart,

if not a house

haunted by its

metamorphosis?

I have fought

to fit into frames

that could not hold me,

molding myself

to the marble of memories,

pushing my pulse

against the pages

I should have set it on fire.

But change—it's a wildfire.

a flood, a reckoning,

a whisper in the marrow

that says I am meant

to be more

than the sum of my shadows.



So I let the winds

carry off the ashes,

Let the rain

wash the ruins,

and let the silence

author the new story.



For in the heart of change,

I do not lose myself—I find

the version

that was waiting

to be born.