The body knows a silent, steady task,
Beneath the skin, behind the weary mask.
It stitches life together, thread by thread,
Ignoring all the frantic words unsaid.
The wound is not the surface, red and thin,
But the slow mending that begins within.
The sun still finds the pane, though days feel dim,
And light, impartial, settles on the rim
Of teacups waiting, untouched on the sill.
A fragile, quiet moment standing still.
This pause is not a weakness, but a grace
A resting moment in this hurried space.
You did the hard, impossible thing, you moved,
Through pain and sorrow, utterly unproved
To anyone but you, the warrior soul.
Now let the weight fall off, release control.
Let gravity reclaim the things you carried,
The burdens born, the heavy tasks unvaried.
The breath comes in, a slow and shallow tide,
A contract with the life you still reside
Within. This simple rise and fall of chest
Is proof the inner systems have not rest.
They battle forward, for the coming day,
Though fear and grief may try to lead astray.
Look not to tomorrow, or the week ahead,
But only to this hour in your bed.
The pain medication is a temporary shield,
Allowing ground that has been lost, revealed
To hold itself together, safe and whole,
A quiet respite granted to the soul.
Remember simple things: the sip of water clear,
The turning of the clock, the distant sound you hear.
Acknowledge every small step you achieve,
The energy it costs just to believe.
To walk a hallway, or to sit and eat,
These small acts make the slow recovery sweet.
The lost ones live in memory’s warm fire,
Their voices rise to meet your deep desire.
They are the reason why you must be strong,
To hold their story where they still belong,
Not as a weight to crush you with despair,
But gentle whispers carried on the air.
The scar you carry now, a thin, faint line,
Will fade, transforming from a brutal sign
Into a chapter closed, a trial survived.
A new strength in the muscles is derived
From giving in to rest, from being kind,
To what the body needs to leave behind.
It’s in the letting go the healing starts,
Releasing pressure on the breaking hearts.
Allow the tears to fall, allow the need,
And plant within the darkness a new seed.
A future where the lightness can return,
A lesson in the hardest ways to learn.
So close your eyes, and listen to the quiet hum,
And know the hardest, heaviest task is done.
The healing is the effort of the meek,
A gentle power, silent, slow, and unique.
Be patient with the self that seeks release,
And find the quiet moment of your peace.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 11:34 AM UTC
The body knows a silent, steady task,
Beneath the skin, behind the weary mask.
It stitches life together, thread by thread,
Ignoring all the frantic words unsaid.
The wound is not the surface, red and thin,
But the slow mending that begins within.
The sun still finds the pane, though days feel dim,
And light, impartial, settles on the rim
Of teacups waiting, untouched on the sill.
A fragile, quiet moment standing still.
This pause is not a weakness, but a grace
A resting moment in this hurried space.
You did the hard, impossible thing, you moved,
Through pain and sorrow, utterly unproved
To anyone but you, the warrior soul.
Now let the weight fall off, release control.
Let gravity reclaim the things you carried,
The burdens born, the heavy tasks unvaried.
The breath comes in, a slow and shallow tide,
A contract with the life you still reside
Within. This simple rise and fall of chest
Is proof the inner systems have not rest.
They battle forward, for the coming day,
Though fear and grief may try to lead astray.
Look not to tomorrow, or the week ahead,
But only to this hour in your bed.
The pain medication is a temporary shield,
Allowing ground that has been lost, revealed
To hold itself together, safe and whole,
A quiet respite granted to the soul.
Remember simple things: the sip of water clear,
The turning of the clock, the distant sound you hear.
Acknowledge every small step you achieve,
The energy it costs just to believe.
To walk a hallway, or to sit and eat,
These small acts make the slow recovery sweet.
The lost ones live in memory’s warm fire,
Their voices rise to meet your deep desire.
They are the reason why you must be strong,
To hold their story where they still belong,
Not as a weight to crush you with despair,
But gentle whispers carried on the air.
The scar you carry now, a thin, faint line,
Will fade, transforming from a brutal sign
Into a chapter closed, a trial survived.
A new strength in the muscles is derived
From giving in to rest, from being kind,
To what the body needs to leave behind.
It’s in the letting go the healing starts,
Releasing pressure on the breaking hearts.
Allow the tears to fall, allow the need,
And plant within the darkness a new seed.
A future where the lightness can return,
A lesson in the hardest ways to learn.
So close your eyes, and listen to the quiet hum,
And know the hardest, heaviest task is done.
The healing is the effort of the meek,
A gentle power, silent, slow, and unique.
Be patient with the self that seeks release,
And find the quiet moment of your peace.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
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