Scars are syllables carved in bone,
Each trial a scripture we half-own;
Detach, not fleeing, but standing still—
Life teaches best when we unlearn will.
The river cuts its bed through stone,
Not by rage, but by being alone;
So too the soul, in silent bends,
Learns that beginnings wear the face of ends.
Grief kneels softly beside the fire,
Whispering truths no joy can sire;
We hold our dreams till fingers numb,
Then bless the void they’re taken from.
The sun departs, yet leaves its glow,
In ashes, seeds of mornings grow;
Each fall from grace, each cracked design,
Makes hollow rooms where stars align.
We chase our shadows through the years,
Trading laughter for wiser tears;
Till loss, once feared, becomes our guide—
The wound no longer needs to hide.
Stillness is not what death bestows,
It’s life unclothed of highs and lows;
A pause between the thought and breath,
Where peace walks hand in hand with death.
The heart, once tempest, now a shore,
Knows tides will come and ask no more;
Content to break, content to mend,
It trusts the sea to be its end.
And in that trust, the world turns kind,
For pain grows soft when we stop mind;
No vow remains, no war, no thrill—
Just quiet truth: we unlearn will.