The stars I’ve come to cherish are shrouded in the gray,
And all the doors I will not open beckon me to stay.
And so, one night, I find myself where shadows press like stone,
Lost among the echoes of a heart I thought my own.

The storm came swift, unbidden, the sky a shattered grey,
I ran through streets familiar, yet found no open way.
Then past a gate left open, past stone both old and worn,
A refuge from the driving rain, I go inside, my jacket torn.

The storm came swift, unbidden, the sky a shattered grey,
I ran through streets familiar, yet found no open way.
Then past a gate left open, past stone both old and worn,
I stepped inside for refuge, from winds both sharp and torn.

The friars in procession, their robes a river’s flow,
Their chants a solemn cadence, the ancient words I know.
I stood, unbowed, yet still, I felt a pull inside,
A harmony I’d never heard, a love that cannot hide.
The hymns rose like a current, a song without a name,
Yet in their cadence, something silenced found its name.

The incense curled around me, like whispers in the air,
Its fragrance bore a memory—a longing, now laid bare.
The prayers, once empty echoes, now rang in words of light,
No longer chains of duty, but truth that burned so bright.

I felt the strength of freedom, unburdened by the law,
Not chained by rites or reason, but lifted by the awe.
For reason was no tyrant, nor faith an empty lie,
But pillars intertwined, beneath a boundless sky.

No throne of gold before me, no scepter’s cruel demand,
But mercy in a Father’s eyes, a scarred and outstretched hand.
No conquest in my bending, no ******* in my fall,
But love that knew my name before the first light touched the dawn.

My heart is His to shape. My life is His to guide.
My soul is His to cleanse. My mind is open wide.

I feel the weight of something, but I cannot name it yet.
A stirring in the marrow, a thirst I can’t forget.
It calls me not in orders, nor wrapped in sacred rhyme,
But in moments of quiet beauty, beyond the march of time.
I do not bend to dogma, nor crown the righteous king,
Yet still, a seed within me stirs, a quiet, nameless spring.

A light that flickers softly, where shadows once held sway,
A warmth that rises in my chest, though I push it all away.
I see the world in fragments, yet something seems to fit,
A pattern, faint but fleeting, as though a door is lit.
Not by rules or ritual, not by prayer or praise,
But by love and light and wonder, beyond the shifting haze.

I walk beneath the branches, where sunlight softly falls,
The rustle of the leaves like whispers in forgotten halls
Of dreams I’ve yet to fathom, of truths I dare not see,
Yet here in nature’s chorus, a song calls back to me.
The breeze, a gentle hand that pulls my mind from pride,
And the doors I've locked before, are now flung open wide.

I see the colors in the sky, where clouds and light entwine,
In every tree and stone I see what once seemed undefined.
In dreams, I saw a calling, in nature it appears,
A love that spans the heavens, a peace that calms my fears.
I will not kneel before the altar, nor follow empty creed,
But in this world of beauty, I find the faith I need.

I will not bend, I will not break, but maybe I will listen.
Not to order, not to law, but to beauty, as it glistens.

My heart is mine to rule. My life is mine to spend.
My soul is mine to stain. My mind is mine to end.
I shall grant no quarter, to fancies without order.
Fairy tales, I name them—fools, the ones who claim them.
Though reason may be theirs, though logic may be sound,
Fools I still will call them—their whispers, I will drown.
I will not heed their reasons, for reason I reject.
I will not grant them audience; their pleas, I shall forget.
Wicked, cruel, deceivers—all who claim faith’s name,
I blind my eyes against their love, for sight would bear me shame.

Yet still this hound pursues me in comment and in creed,
Soft-speaking of a Love unknown, my tears begin to bleed.
In painted dreams He haunts me, with visions rich and bright,
Where life and purpose bloom, in hues I dare not write.
His voice like water calls me, it soothes, it lulls, it sings.
Yet I will not be conquered—I will not bow to kings!
I steel my heart against Him, I bar the door with pride,
For though the song is lovely, I must not step inside.

He's writ his sonnets on my soul, yet I shall tear them free,
For though my heart may hunger, I will not let it be.
Let me be a dust speck—a fleeting breath of clay.
Let me rot in comfort until I meet decay.
No joy, no peace, no meaning beyond this fleeting spark—
No future shall I fathom; I will not fear the dark.

Too harsh, too cruel, too simple, this writ upon my soul.
My pride will suffer nothing more than death to be my whole.
I stand upon this nothing, unshaken and alone,
A throne of silent echoes, a heart as hard as stone.

Yet echoes of that singing still haunt the air I breathe,
And whispers trace a hollow space, where certainty should be.

Feet firm on earth,
still chasing dreams
in a world now his own.

Sweat spills from strong pores,
forging currents of futures
he now shapes.

Tight embraces,
arms steady and sure,
a father’s pride made strong.

Wood and leather,
worked to tough threads—
faith stitched into his resolve.

Grass stains on knees,
still bending the world
to his will,
moved by purpose.

Anthems of hope
rise in his voice,
lifting his father’s soul
to love’s high planes.

The quiet secrets
of love and compassion,
once hidden by modesty,
are now lived out loud.

He follows his path
through shifting fields,
where once slick frogs slipped
through eager hands—

A world he builds,
a world he claims,
a world his father
now trusts to his hands.

Soft hands once held tight,
small fingers grasping
strings of laughter—
bubbles of wonder.

Now, steady hands weave
threads of her own,
spinning life’s fabric
with quiet resolve.

Footsteps that still dance
through sunlit sand
also press firm paths
of wisdom and grace.

Her voice, still a song
belting with fervor,
speaks with echoes
of strength and love.

Mischievous smiles remain,
tempered by time,
yet still lighting the room
with their knowing glow.

Bright eyes, still seeking,
but also seeing—
a future shaped
by hands once guided.

Trusting, complete love—
a father watches,
holding tight to pride,
as she floats beyond—
on threads of time.

Small hands clutching tight,
strings of laughter tethered
to floating dreams—
bubbles of wonder.

Sand-filled toes in shoes,
quick feet dancing
through my greatest dreams
of who she will be.

Soft kisses from lips
formed from my own heart,
melting into a
stream to her future.

Sweet songs of her love,
belted with fervor
from within the small,
light-flowered sundress.

Mischievous smiles,
doll-filled hands spinning
games that fill the day
with her glow of joy.

Bright eyes signaling
a future, brilliant
as the twinkle
of stolen stars.

Trusting, complete love,
holding tight to life
as it drifts beyond,
on bubbles of wonder

Feet shod in mud,
chasing frogs and dreams
in a world all his own.

Sweat spills from young pores,
racing currents of futures
not yet known.

Tight embraces,
soon-to-be strong arms,
swelling pride in a father's heart.

Wood and leather,
worked to tough threads—
faith stitched into his aspirations.

Grass stains on knees,
bending the world to his will,
moved by dreams.

Anthems of hope
rise in his heart,
lifting his father’s soul
to love’s high planes.

The quiet secrets
of love and compassion,
hidden by modesty,
are known to all.

He follows his dreams
through mud-soaked fields,
where slick frogs slip
through eager hands—

A world he shapes,
a world he claims,
a world his father
once called his own.