I kept wiping the dust of journeys from my face,
Lost in that lane's unending, circling grace.
This is my eye's shrine—tread softly, hold your breath,
A dream still whirls here in the heart of death.
I stepped before myself, pushed to the extreme,
Yet He forgave even me, or so it would seem.
And now I see—it was never the sacred shrine,
Only your home I mistook for the divine.
I am but embers, I am the fire's core,
So every lamp I lit confessed, and burned for
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 12:34 PM UTC
I kept wiping the dust of journeys from my face,
Lost in that lane's unending, circling grace.
This is my eye's shrine—tread softly, hold your breath,
A dream still whirls here in the heart of death.
I stepped before myself, pushed to the extreme,
Yet He forgave even me, or so it would seem.
And now I see—it was never the sacred shrine,
Only your home I mistook for the divine.
I am but embers, I am the fire's core,
So every lamp I lit confessed, and burned for