I walk the same worn path each day,
To reach the lab where dreamers stay.
Among the flasks, the silent air,
I find a bench and settle there.

Some days, the glassware hums with light,
Experiments go smooth and right.
A mentor speaks; the notes unfold—
A day worth more than bars of gold.

But often comes a quieter hour,
No voice, no task, no guiding power.
The lab feels still, the tools untouched,
The clock ticks on, but not so much.

I watch another down the row,
With glowing face and practiced flow.
Their hands are full, their world expands—
While I just sit with empty hands.

I question—why am I even here?
The silence loud, the purpose unclear.
Yet in that stillness, shadows dance,
And whisper, “This too is your chance.”

To learn not just from flame and spark,
But from the waiting, still and dark.
To find in quiet, humble grace,
The courage to still hold your place.

For seeds of skill and thought run deep,
They stretch in silence, then they leap.
Not every day will burst or shine—
Some simply trace a patient line.

So, I return, lab coat in fold,
To stories yet to be retold.
Though no one calls or hands me keys,
I sit, observe, and learn to be.

And even when no task is planned,
I train the mind; I steady the hand.
One day, I’ll light the Bunsen flame—
And call the waiting bench by name.