We are not born with fire—
we choose it.
In the silence of doubt,
in the ache of waking pain,
we reach for a flame
that doesn’t burn,
but builds.
Some of us burn
not to destroy,
but to light paths
no one dared walk before.
We carve names into time
with trembling hands
and unwavering hearts.
Creation is not in limbs,
but in vision.
In the breath that shapes words,
in the mind that dares to dream
even as the body folds.
But even fire,
no matter how bright,
must one day soften
into ember.
Even warriors
deserve a gentle sunset.
So when peace calls your name—
when stillness becomes the goal,
not the obstacle—
may you rest with pride,
not regret.
For the world remembers
those who chose to live
with courage,
to create in the dark,
to love in the storm.
And to my friend,
who walks with wisdom and weight,
know this:
You are not fading.
You are finishing—
and every step leaves warmth behind.
This poem is dedicated to a man whose honesty lit something in me. It's for anyone facing the weight of time, illness, or doubt—and still choosing to speak, to create, to feel. This is about the fire we carry, the peace we seek, and the love that binds it all together in the end. Much respect, always.
