A mosaic of a thousand strokes,
Of violet, gold, and indigo light.
I see the boy I used to be,
And the son who keeps me up at night.
The upward tilt of a hopeful chin,
The eyes that search a distant sky,
Reflecting all the worlds within,
And the bitter "hello" in a long goodbye.
There is a distance, cold and wide,
A silence where a song should be.
It haunts the spaces deep inside,
Like a ghost that’s anchored fast to me.
The grief is heavy, sharp, and still,
A loss that tastes like salt and stone,
Bending the spirit to its will,
Leaving the architect alone.
In this season of the searching soul,
Where I peel back layers of the past,
I try to make the broken whole,
And build a peace I hope will last.
Through every brushstroke of the day,
In every line I seek to trace,
I find the parts I threw away,
And look for shadows of your face.
I whisper to the quiet air,
A plea to Him who counts our tears:
Let not my memory vanish there,
Across the bridge of silent years.
May he remember how I loved,
Though I was lost within the gale,
By ancient mercy, deeply moved,
Beneath a grace that will not fail.
I wait for when the colors blend,
When distance yields to solid ground.
Where every bitter road will end,
And what was lost is finally found.
Until then, I will hold this light,
This portrait of a spirit true,
And pray through every lonely night,
To find my way back home to you.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 11:25 AM UTC
A mosaic of a thousand strokes,
Of violet, gold, and indigo light.
I see the boy I used to be,
And the son who keeps me up at night.
The upward tilt of a hopeful chin,
The eyes that search a distant sky,
Reflecting all the worlds within,
And the bitter "hello" in a long goodbye.
There is a distance, cold and wide,
A silence where a song should be.
It haunts the spaces deep inside,
Like a ghost that’s anchored fast to me.
The grief is heavy, sharp, and still,
A loss that tastes like salt and stone,
Bending the spirit to its will,
Leaving the architect alone.
In this season of the searching soul,
Where I peel back layers of the past,
I try to make the broken whole,
And build a peace I hope will last.
Through every brushstroke of the day,
In every line I seek to trace,
I find the parts I threw away,
And look for shadows of your face.
I whisper to the quiet air,
A plea to Him who counts our tears:
Let not my memory vanish there,
Across the bridge of silent years.
May he remember how I loved,
Though I was lost within the gale,
By ancient mercy, deeply moved,
Beneath a grace that will not fail.
I wait for when the colors blend,
When distance yields to solid ground.
Where every bitter road will end,
And what was lost is finally found.
Until then, I will hold this light,
This portrait of a spirit true,
And pray through every lonely night,
To find my way back home to you.
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