In shadowed light, I walk the seam, Between the silence and the stream. The day forgets the night it knew, Yet I still trace that fading hue. The world repeats in loops of grey, A spinning truth that slips away. But in the cracks, beneath the crust, A flick of breath, a glint of trust. Not every bloom will meet the sun, Some roots will drink and come undone. Still in the stillness, whispers bend, Toward the sky they won't defend. Stubborn hope, it never sleeps, Buried low but dreaming deep. Not to rise, but to remain, A pulse beneath the weight of rain. Perhaps there's nothing left to grow, No seeds to cast, no need to sow. But even stone accepts the stream— The world may never match the dream. And maybe joy’s not what we chase, But what we hold when we embrace— This fragile thread, this quiet beat, The echo humming at our feet. Stubborn hope, a gentle thread, Weaves through all we’ve done and said. Not to shine, but just to stay, A light that doesn’t burn away.
