The Art of Starting Over

It’s not in flames or grand parades,

Not phoenix wings or bold crusades.

It starts in rooms where shadows stretch,

Where silence lays like tangled nets.

It starts with mugs left on the stove,

With folded clothes you finally stow.

With sun that sneaks through dusty blinds—

A quiet warmth, a subtle sign.

You sweep the floor where tears once fell,

Each speck of dust a tale to tell.

The clock still ticks, the faucet drips—

But time no longer bruises lips.

It’s packing boxes full of dreams,

And leaving ghosts inside old seams.

It’s choosing light, though dusk feels near,

And walking through your deepest fear.

You learn the weight of morning’s hush,

The poetry in petals crushed.

The way a sparrow dares to sing,

Though winter still clings to its wing.

Starting over isn’t loud—

It’s soft as breath, it isn’t proud.

But every day you choose to rise,

You paint new color in your skies.