A canvas waits, as silence hums,
The hush before the echo drums.
A twist of thought, a curl of thread,
Begins to dance where doubt had bled.
A ribbon black begins to slide,
Like memory curling deep inside.
It loops through fire, it dips in grace,
It maps the soul’s long-hidden place.
Colors bloom where pain had grown—
A reckless green, a twilight tone.
A sunburst leans on ocean’s cry,
Together they refuse goodbye.
A shape half-heart, half-melody,
Emerges from the storm to be.
It neither shouts, nor seeks to claim,
Yet boldly wears its unnamed name.
Above, a stringed and shadowed chord
Holds notes the world cannot afford.
It sings in red, it bleeds in black—
A past that dares to not look back.
And somewhere near, a mask is shed,
While roots grow strong where once it bled.
A rhythm found in broken things,
Now lifts the brush on newborn wings.
So mark the hour not with noise,
But by the tilt of silent poise—
For when the soul begins to spark,
The comeback carves its quiet mark.