I sit at the summit where silence begins,
on the edge of a whisper the forest sends in
the hush of green breath cradling my frame,
as if the Earth knows me by name.

Above, the sky yawns wide with grace,
a cathedral of blue where I lose my face
no more the boy who hides his ache,
just a soul the breeze dares not break.

Below me, roots entwine like arms
gentle with my weight, immune to harm.
They don’t ask why I can’t stay still,
why rest feels like a swallow of pills.

Because motion motion is mercy to me.
In steps and sprints, I am finally free.
Each forward breath, a sacred escape
from thoughts that linger in shadows’ shape.

But in the stillness, in this quiet wood,
grief presses its face to my pulse and blood.
Memories ungrieved, like ghosts unmet,
pull up chairs in my chest and do not forget.

Stillness does not ask if I am ready
it enters like dusk, quiet and steady.
It holds me hostage in fields of thought,
where every loss I’ve buried is caught.