Belief

In the rare moments where I dared to dream,

That I could be more than a broken routine.

Fractured glass, and a whisper to flame,

Where caution wore masks of wisdom and shame.

A door made of silence, of guilt, and of breath,

A seam in the fabric of after and death.

Not death of the body, but death of the known,

The comfort of walls I had quietly grown.

No face and no name, no answers to me,
A tide with no shoreline, a root with no tree.

It asks not for proof, nor a map etched in gold,
But faith in a story that waits to be told.

No promise of landing, nor proof of ascent,
Only space in the ribcage where doubt once was bent.

For that who I was, and for who I might grow,
The heart’s love abounds, and seeks only to know.

For every horizon was once just a line,
A calling, a question, desire to define.

So here in the quiet between what is and can be,
I loosen the grip on what it means to be free. 

In those rare moments where I dared to dream,
Belief is the proof that becoming was me.