I do not know what waits beyond
This pale horizon’s shifting seam,
The road is fog, the stars are gone,
Yet still I follow some old dream.

No map, no mark, no prophet’s voice,
No compass etched in stone or sky,
Just breath and hush, a wavering choice,
To walk, though every reason asks me why.

Each footfall hums a softer tune,
Not brave, not bold, but something near,
A whisper shaped beneath the moon,
Not “Go,” but simply, “Still be here.”

And is that not what hope becomes,
A rhythm carried in the chest?
Not knowing where the morning drums,
But rising still, and doing our best.

So let the dark be what it is,
A cloak, a gate, a sea unspun,
My soul has learned the art of this,
To step, not seeing, toward the sun.

For poetry walks where language breaks,
In silences the heart completes,
Each step a faith the future takes,
Though blind, the path beneath me speaks.

dear future self,
we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?
if i had written to you ten years ago,
it wouldn’t have sounded like this.
i would’ve tried to explain who i was,
outline the path that led to you,
the way a student writes an essay —
structured, unsure, incomplete.

but you know enough now
to read between the lines,
and browse through my mistakes,
that fell like heavy rain from the sky.
i hope that the ghosts of the past
have finally been set free,
and they don’t haunt you in the midnight air
the way they are haunting me.

did you get some of the things
i’ve spent years aching for?
answers to the never-ending whys —
why i keep repeating patterns,
why i stay when i should leave,
why i doubt what’s already mine?
did you find confidence
that isn’t choked by fear?
and love —
not the kind you read in stories,
but the kind that lets you heal.

i don’t expect letters,
gift-wrapped remedies for the ache,
but please —
don’t think less of me
for walking through the fire
when i could’ve turned away.

i’m looking forward to meeting you.
not for answers —
but just to see who survived.
if you’re still standing,
then maybe so am i.

I feel like those old abandoned factories-

My heart, a shattered window
My legs, crumbling bricks
My thoughts, muddled graffiti
My whole body, rusted and broken down

But I still stand.
Like that dilapidated factory,
through suffering, it also stands
even in its ruined state.

But then, suddenly,
shards of light
cast a spectral play
through fractured panes,
an almost ethereal experience
it is so rare.

Still, hope glimmers,
and after a while,
wildflowers bloom,
stretching across the span,
reclaiming the ruins,
growing over the brokenness,
not in spite of it
but because of it.

The rocky vessel
I’ve stood on
My whole life

Still leaves me swaying—
Though I’ve since stepped
Onto land.