I lit my candles all alone,
on a night that should have been my own.
The tiny flame flickered and died,
I whispered my wishes, but none replied.

He, as always, lay asleep,
while I stood silent, tired, bleak.
I washed the dishes, cleaned the floor,
he “saved his energy” once more.

I asked, I pleaded, time and again,
but silence met me now as then.
I carried weight that no one should,
believing strength meant all I could.

And him? He sighs, he hides away,
a child in mind, a man in sway.
And me? I cook, I clean, I run,
but who sees me when the day is done?

Loneliness lingers, heavy, cold,
a story quiet, left untold.
But maybe soon, when night appears,
I’ll light a flame for me, not tears.

It begins—
not with a shape, nor a line,
but a spark, a whisper, caught in design,
something unseen, not yet thought,
a seed before rising to light.

Fingers trace the unseen design,
pressing the silence, pulling the thread,
molding what stirs, what longs to be said.

The wheel turns, the rhythm wakes,
clay that trembles, bends, and breaks—
too much force, it shatters fast,
too little, and it cannot last.
Again, again, the hands return,
not to command, but to discern.

Then—

the self dissolves.
No hand, no clay,
only motion, only sway,
a pull, a pulse,
something rising from the space
between knowing and embrace.

No thought remains,
only touch, only trance,
only creation’s quiet dance,
shaping itself through the one who bends,
to where the art itself intends.

And when the wheel slows to its rest,
when breath is deep and hands are pressed,
who shapes, who surrenders—
the hands, or what they manifest?

I drift, a river restless, wide,
Carved by time, yet pulled inside.
Bound to banks that held me tight,
Yet drawn beyond their dwindling sight.

The wind hums secrets to my skin,
A song of loss, a song of kin.
The waves that call, the stars that guide,
Whisper change—yet fear resides.

I crash, I twist, I rise, I fall,
A roaring flood, a whispered call.
Melancholy pools in me,
But so does fire, wild and free.

The ocean waits with open hands,
Unmeasured depths, untrodden sands.
Am I dissolving? Am I whole?
Or just becoming something more—

A sky, a storm, a silver crest,
The river vast within my chest.
No longer lost, not yet complete,
I am the flow, I am the deep.