I do not know what waits beyond
This pale horizon’s shifting seam,
The road is fog, the stars are gone,
Yet still I follow some old dream.

No map, no mark, no prophet’s voice,
No compass etched in stone or sky,
Just breath and hush, a wavering choice,
To walk, though every reason asks me why.

Each footfall hums a softer tune,
Not brave, not bold, but something near,
A whisper shaped beneath the moon,
Not “Go,” but simply, “Still be here.”

And is that not what hope becomes,
A rhythm carried in the chest?
Not knowing where the morning drums,
But rising still, and doing our best.

So let the dark be what it is,
A cloak, a gate, a sea unspun,
My soul has learned the art of this,
To step, not seeing, toward the sun.

For poetry walks where language breaks,
In silences the heart completes,
Each step a faith the future takes,
Though blind, the path beneath me speaks.