The Lantern

In the dead of night,

when even stars seem to fade,

a faint glow lingers.

Not loud,

not bright,

but stubborn, unyielding.

The lantern glows softly.

It doesn’t fight the shadows,

doesn’t shatter the silence,

doesn’t promise a clear path.

A quiet presence,

a soft pulse beneath all that was lost.

It hums beneath the quiet,

a shaky thread of breath,

barely there,

yet holding.

It is the breath you forgot you held,

a soft whisper that says:

Not yet.

Not all is lost.

Around it,

ruins settle and silence deepens,

but the glow remains.

It remembers warmth,

even when your heart can’t.

It remembers dawn,

even when your eyes don’t.

It remembers your name,

when you feel forgotten.

Though your hands are empty,

and the path behind you vanished,

it glows.

Still,

it glows.

Still,

it waits.

It waits for your trembling fingers

to reach out to catch it,

when the cold silence cracks just enough,

to let the small flicker in.

It waits to remind you:

even in the deepest dark,

the loudest silence,

a thread of light can carry hope.

When all is lost,

still, something remains.

It is the pulse beneath your skin,

the quiet beat that carries you through despair,

a steady rhythm in the hush of night.

And when the dawn finally breaks,

that stubborn glow will be there,

carrying the weight,

of all you’ve held,

lighting the path,

you thought was lost.

Still,

it glows.

Still,

it waits.