You Are Not, I am

You are not my son.

I am not your mother.

And yet the question Am I?

echoes in the chambers of my chest.

The answer — I Am —

rings deeper than memory,

a voice without a face,

a presence without a name,

familiar as breath,

mine and not mine.

I am never alone.

I am always at rest.

For the bearer of calm —

the bearer of Ken —

has always lived here.

⸻

Fear spun me wild.

Anger circled like wolves.

Crowds gathered in the shadows,

waiting for one soul to break

so the chaos could feast.

For years I complained,

forgotten, abandoned,

left to raise myself in the dark.

But your voice —

that voice —

was already inside me,

whispering you’re home.

Jealous and angry,

I acted like the wounded boy

sent to die with no map

and no sight to guide him.

Yet again and again

I crawled back from the door of death,

seeking any bottle, any pill,

any doorway that might

knock me into silence.

Now the storm is breaking.

Now I shelter no more.

⸻

Not peace as in finding answers.

Not peace as in winning the war.

Peace as in peace —

the quiet permission

to simply exist.

To sit in the stillness

with hatred nearby,

with chaos circling,

and yet see clearly,

finally free.

The peace of my calm.

The calmness of Ken.

The heaven within

that I could never touch

until now.

Gratitude rises like dawn.

I am home once again.

I struggle, yes —

with desire, with memory,

with the dances of sin —

but I listen now

for the calmness of Ken,

that pure sweet echo

calling me back to myself.

The voice of one

is made of many.

The voices of many

are made of one.

Here —

in this breath,

in this body,

in this truth —

I am whole.

I am home.

⸻

Without Wax,

K.S. Wren