The sky came down in sheets of silver light, not to bury us, but to show where the dark begins. I followed the last glow past the broken gate, past the names the road no longer remembers. And I understood—light is not a place you reach. It is a weight you learn to carry. I have been a shadow asking for the sun. I have been a closed hand begging for the sky. The last light above is not a fire to follow. It is the mirror where the lost become whole. We rise, we rise, we rise, not to escape the night— but to hold it until it turns to gold. I carved my name into the dust of the road, and the wind did not erase it—it carried it. Every star that died above me left a sound inside my chest. And I am not empty. I am a room full of old light. I have been a shadow asking for the sun. I have been a closed hand begging for the sky. The last light above is not a fire to follow. It is the mirror where the lost become whole. We rise, we rise, we rise, not to escape the night— but to hold it until it turns to gold. If I fall, let me fall toward the light. If I break, let the pieces learn to shine. I am not leaving. I am becoming. The last light above is not a fire to follow. It is the mirror where the lost become whole. We rise, we rise, we rise, not to escape the night— but to hold it until it turns to gold. The light above... now inside... now inside...
