In the lantern hush of a half-lit road, I wore a coat stitched out of old tomorrows, Buttons made of borrowed hopes, Lining frayed by rain and swallowed sorrows. The moon hung low like a silver secret, A coin tossed high by a careless god, And every step I took kept asking If the earth beneath me still was solid. I crossed a river made of whispers, Where currents carried names I used to know. They curled around my ankles softly, Begging me not to let them go. But the water knew what I was learning— Some things are meant to drift downstream. You can’t build a home from echoes, Or stitch forever into a dream. So I sailed in a paper boat of questions, Across an ocean inked in midnight blue. Stars were pinholes in the heavens, Leaking little truths I never knew. The wind, a choir of unseen angels, Sang in tongues of rust and gold, And every note untied a knot I’d fastened tight to keep from growing old. I left my footprints on the shoreline, But tides are thieves with patient hands. They stole the map I thought I needed, Drew new borders in the sand. Funny how losing your direction Can lead you where you’re meant to be. The compass broke, the sky kept turning, And somehow that was enough for me. I climbed a mountain built from silence, Each stone a lesson, sharp and steep. The summit wasn’t made of glory, Just promises I chose to keep. Clouds wrapped round me like old blankets, Threadbare, soft, and smelling of rain. I learned that healing isn’t spotless— It often limps before it sings again. In the valley stood a forest, Its branches tangled like my mind. Roots reached deep through ancient darkness, Searching for what they might find. I walked beneath its shadowed cathedral, Where broken light kissed moss and bone, And found that even fallen trees Can feed a thousand seeds unknown. I met wolves wearing human faces, And saints disguised as thieves at dawn. I learned some hands will build your shelter, While others smile and set it on fire, then move along. But ash is fertile in the springtime; It feeds the fields where wildflowers rise. So I stopped cursing every wildfire And thanked the smoke for clearing skies. There were deserts made of waiting, Where time crawled slow as lizards basking. The sun stripped me of all pretenses, Left only truth and endless asking. I drank from wells of my own making, Deep and dark and cold as grace. And found the thirst I feared the most Was really hunger for my place. At night I slept beneath constellations That looked like scars across the black. Each one a story burned in starlight, A reminder there’s no going back. But backward never built a future; It only haunts the rearview glass. So I learned to bless the rearview’s lessons While keeping my eyes on roads that last. I’ve worn crowns woven out of thistles, And halos forged from bent tin wire. I’ve danced with doubt in empty ballrooms, And warmed my hands at failure’s fire. Yet every ember held a secret, Every ruin hummed a song: You are not the storm that broke you— You are the bridge that carried on. Now the moon still walks beside me, A quiet witness, pale and wise. She doesn’t promise easy answers, Only truth in borrowed light. And the road unfolds like ribbon, Silver stitched through dark and day. I’ve stopped asking where it’s leading; I trust the journey knows the way. So if you see me on that highway, With dust like diamonds in my hair, Know I am made of every leaving, Every loss, each answered prayer. I am river, root, and mountain, Paper boat and burning tree. A thousand endings taught me one thing: The longest road leads home to me. And home is not a place of walls, Not brick, nor beam, nor nailed-down floor. It’s the place inside your spirit That doesn’t need to wander anymore. It’s the fire you carry forward, The song you hum when nights grow cold, The steady hand upon your own heart, The story only you can hold. So I’ll keep walking, keep becoming, Through moonlit doubt and sunrise grace. For life is less a final destination Than a thousand ways to shape a face. And every road, no matter winding, Every sea and field I roam, Has whispered through its dust and thunder: Lose yourself—and find your home.
