A gentle request, not a command.
Let the words rest at the door.
For a heart that is locked, be it gentle or grand,
Will only grow stubborn, and love it no more.
The truth does not batter, it does not break through
With a crowbar of will or a plea.
It waits like the sun on the morning dew,
A warmth that invites you to be free.
A bud in the spring doesn't burst at the seam
Because winter is shouting "Grow fast!"
It unfurls to the light of a silent dream,
A surrender to warmth meant to last.
So whisper your song, and then let it be.
Plant your seed in the soil, then part.
For what is truly real, like a calm, boundless sea,
Will open the harbor of its own heart.
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 4:57 PM UTC
A gentle request, not a command.
Let the words rest at the door.
For a heart that is locked, be it gentle or grand,
Will only grow stubborn, and love it no more.
The truth does not batter, it does not break through
With a crowbar of will or a plea.
It waits like the sun on the morning dew,
A warmth that invites you to be free.
A bud in the spring doesn't burst at the seam
Because winter is shouting "Grow fast!"
It unfurls to the light of a silent dream,
A surrender to warmth meant to last.
So whisper your song, and then let it be.
Plant your seed in the soil, then part.
For what is truly real, like a calm, boundless sea,
Will open the harbor of its own heart.