They tell us time heals everything,
as though hours were surgeons,
as though calendars carried sutures.
But I have learned otherwise.

Time does not erase the wound;
it teaches the body a different gait.
The ache remains, but it dulls its blade,
no longer cutting, only whispering,
a scar that knows the weather
before the sky remembers.

And yet, in the hollow carved by loss,
something else begins to bloom.
Joy creeps in like sunlight
through the cracks of an old wall,
stubborn, insistent,
turning rubble into gardens.

We do not get over grief,
as though it were a fence to vault.
We grow around it,
branches bending wide
to make room for what is unmovable,
roots finding strength in the stone
that would not shift.

This is the quiet alchemy of survival:
pain becomes soil,
tears water the ground,
and out of what cannot be undone,
life, impossibly, flowers.

It is not the fair-weather friend
who writes their name upon your heart,
but the one who, seeing the storm,
folds their umbrella shut,
choosing wet shoulders beside you
over comfort alone.

Anyone can walk in sunlight,
laugh in the soft meadow,
but it takes a rare and quiet courage
to stand ankle-deep in puddles,
to let the thunder bruise their sky
so you do not face the lightning alone.

Love is not the absence of rain,
it is the gentle hand that finds yours
when the world is unraveling,
the warmth that lingers in cold mist,
the voice that says without words:
“I will not leave you here.”

So bless the drenched, the loyal,
the ones who stayed when staying cost them dryness.
For their devotion shines brighter than any sun,
and their soaked clothes
are the garments of saints.

Often in the hush where mortal voices fail,
And Time in solemn hush begins to drift,
There dwells a grace too subtle to unveil,
A space where sorrow weds the soul to lift.

No clang of hour, no clarion of day,
But something soft, an unseen breath between.
The wish once uttered and what fate may say,
A hush where all that might be grows unseen.

For though the tongue does mutter, “I am still,”
The heart, more wise, has learned to wait with grace;
Not bound by fear nor bent to fated will,
But resting in that sweet, uncertain space.

Through prayer and promise lies a holy seam,
A thread of gold the hurried eye might miss.
Where dreams not rushed may gently learn to dream,
And longing knows the cradle of its bliss.

What fool would scorn the bud not yet bloomed?
Or curse the sky for not yet shedding rain?
The rose does ripen in the shade entombed,
And stars are born in quietude and strain.

So I, in stillness, tend the root of trust,
With palms upturned to catch the morning’s grace.
I give my tears unto the waiting dust,
And find a peace that Time cannot displace.

O speak no more of silence as delay,
It is the womb where destinies take form.
Let others run; I choose the patient way,
Where hope, though slow, emerges deep and warm.

In my poetry, I name this magic, hallowed part:
The space where love prepares to touch the heart.

In the quiet chambers of the soul,
Where whispers weave and echoes roll,
A sacred bond, a whispered vow,
Between us two, sealed here and now.

No eyes shall see, no ears shall hear,
The tender truths we hold so near.
For this must ever be our thread,
Unbroken, though by time misled.

The world may beckon, loud and grand,
Its curious reach, its prying hand,
Yet what we share, they'll never see,
A universe gently spun silently.

Oh, how the stars conspire to hide
This luminous fire we hold inside!
A treasure buried, rich, unseen,
In fields of shadows, evergreen.

Your voice, a song no bard could sing,
Your touch, a feathered, fleeting thing.
The words we speak in twilight's glow
Are whispers only we can know.

No keys can turn, no locks shall break,
The solemn oath we dared to make.
Not even time, with ceaseless tread,
Can strip this secret we have bred.

Between us flows a current deep,
A river dreams itself to keep,
And in its depths, the truth shall stay,
Unmoved by night, untouched by day.

Let others chase the fleeting gleam,
The transient glow of waking dream.
For ours is hidden, vast, and free,
A realm that lives with only thee.

And so, this secret, bound in grace,
Will linger in our timeless space.
A covenant no eye can see,
Just you, my heart, and only me.

I love the hush of early mornings,
when the air itself feels unfinished,
like a canvas washed with pale strokes of silver
before the painter dares add colour.

The houses are closed mouths,
the streets unrolled ribbons of silence,
and I walk within it all as if dreaming,
as if the world is a ghost that has paused its breathing
to let me listen to the deeper hum of being.

There is a holiness in these hours,
a sense that the clock has loosened its grip,
that time itself is fragile,
cradled like dew on a blade of grass.

Problems dissolve like shadows before dawn;
the old worries that haunted my sleep
are softened, untied, and left at the threshold.
Here, it is only me, the earth still warm in its slumber,
and the horizon where night surrenders to fire.

The sun’s first fingers reach tenderly,
stroking the edges of the world awake.
The birds, in their hidden chapels of leaves,
tune their voices for a hymn not yet sung.

And I, a single witness, stand astonished,
as though invited to a secret unveiling,
a ceremony meant for no audience at all.
To be the only one awake
is to touch eternity with bare hands,
to know the world not as crowded and restless
but vast, tender, and impossibly alive.

And in that moment,
before the engines stir and the doors slam open,
and the tide of humanity reclaims its noise,
I forget myself, and the weight I carry,
and I belong only to the hush,
the rising light,
and the miracle of another day being born.

Oh, tender balm, the sweetest art,
A force unseen that mends the heart,
Through whispered winds and golden light,
Love heals the wounds of endless night.

Its touch is soft, yet deeply sure,
A salve for pain no time could cure.
In every glance, in every sigh,
It weaves a bridge where sorrows lie.

Beneath the shadows, cold and deep,
Where silent fears and heartbreaks sleep,
Love stirs the soul, ignites the flame,
And teaches us we're not to blame.

It breaks the chains of loss and woe,
Through gentle streams, it bids us grow.
A symphony of hope it plays,
And paints with grace the darkest days.

When grief has silenced all our songs,
And life feels cruel, unjust, and wrong,
Love bends the air with soft refrain,
And fills the cracks with joy again.

It dwells in hands that hold with care,
In every prayer, in every stare.
In laughter shared and tears that flow,
Love whispers, "Child, you're not alone."

Its healing power transcends the scars,
Unites the earth, connects the stars.
A boundless force, it knows no end,
A steadfast guide, a truest friend.

Through love, the shattered heart is whole,
It breathes new life into the soul.
Oh, sacred cure, eternal grace,
The healer time cannot replace.

For love is more than fleeting bliss;
It lives in every tender kiss,
In acts of kindness, pure and true,
The healing of love renews, anew.

Awake, dear soul, as the dawn softly calls,
Through the veil of the night, the light gently falls.
With whispers of purpose, the morning begins,
A sacred refrain from the depths within.

"I matter," you murmur, and the world leans to hear,
Your essence, a symphony, vibrant and clear.
In the arms of self-love, your heart finds its grace,
A radiant glow time cannot erase.

"I am worthy," the mantra, a steadfast decree,
An echo of truth in eternity's sea.
Your value, unshaken, stands tall as the sun,
A luminous thread in the weave just begun.

"I have a great purpose," the universe hums,
A celestial promise of what’s yet to come.
Through beauty and abundance, you brightly shine,
A beacon of hope, both earthly and divine.

"I have a gift," you proclaim with pure might,
A treasure that dazzles in the soft morning light.
Your joy is your birthright, your spirit set free,
"I deserve to be happy," a bold, sacred plea.

With wisdom and courage, your journey unfolds,
"I am wise, I am learning," your story retold.
Intelligent thoughts, like rivers, take flight,
Guiding your path through shadow to light.

"I am healing," you chant, and the wounds start to mend,
"I am evolving," your anthem, the truth you defend.
Creating, manifesting, with heart open wide,
A life rich with wonder, your soul’s chosen guide.

These mantras, like seeds, in your spirit now grow,
Morning’s promise of love in your being bestows.
A better life rises, the dawn’s sweet embrace,
Infused with your essence, your infinite grace.

In a room where shadows stretched like sighs,
Where time wore slippers and whispered lies,
There stood a soul, not born, but built,
Threaded not from ease, but quilted guilt,
Not soft by chance, but choice refined,
By all the jagged things behind.

She walked where tempests cracked the sky,
Where childhood dreams went soft and dry,
Where harsh words bruised like winter sleet,
Yet still she offered something sweet.
Not sugar spun from naivety,
But honey from a wisdom tree.

For kindness, see, is not a gift
Wrapped neat in bows and morning lift,
It’s forged in fire, steeped in rain,
Tempered in sorrow, kissed by pain.
It’s choosing light with eyes gone dim,
And humming hope when edges grim.

She smiles not out of ignorance,
But as rebellion. As a dance.
As a thumb pressed gently in the eye
Of every grief that whispered: Why?

She learned to bloom where nothing grew,
To soften sharpness, split in two,
And still she laughed. And still she gave.
And still she found more hearts to save.

The kindest souls are not naive,
They know how often people leave,
How promises can turn to smoke,
Yet still, they mend the ones who broke.

So if you meet one - bless the thread
That stitched their wounds and raised their head.
They are the lanterns, fierce and bright,
Born not in ease, but in the night.

At last, dear heart, the hush you craved is near,
The dawn you whispered prayers into has come.
The ache, the ache, that long held back your cheer,
Shall yield to peace as soft as morning’s hum.

No more shall shadows slip beneath your door,
No more shall sleepless hours drain your soul.
The chaos that once claimed your nights before,
Now bows beneath the light that makes you whole.

The stars have stirred.
The winds have changed their song.
The sky itself has cleared its weary brow.
You walked through storms that lasted far too long,
But oh, how bright the sacred gift of Now.

No longer tangled in the nets of doubt,
No longer braced for battles yet unknown.
You rise, a quiet flame, no need to shout,
The universe has carved for you a throne.

Clarity wraps you like a second skin,
Each breath a balm, each step a sacred thread.
Fulfillment blooms, not somewhere, but within,
Now peace walks with you, and confusion fled.

So take this hour, this moment, soft and clear,
The new beginning you once dreamed draws near.

In the quiet between heartbeats, I found you there,
Not in grand gestures, but in a most gentle care.
In every moment your eyes softly see,
The deepest, truest parts of me.

You understand when words fall short,
When silence speaks more than love ever thought.
With devotion, you stand by my side,
A lighthouse constant through the tide.

You offer respect like a sacred prayer,
In every look, in how you’re always there.
You validate the dreams I dare to voice,
And reassure me, love is not a choice.
It’s how you show up, again and again,
In sunlight and sorrow, through joy and pain.

And I, in turn, trust your soul’s design,
Accepting your shadows as wholly divine.
I see your strength, and I admire,
The way you rise from every fire.

Your worth, your heart, I deeply approve,
With every breath, I show my love.
And when your courage starts to fade,
I’ll be your echo - unafraid.

Appreciation fills my every vow,
To cherish the person standing here now.
Encouragement will be my gift,
A steady wind, a soul’s uplift.

So let this be the promise I keep,
To love you wide, to love you deep.
Where caring meets trust, and devotion meets grace,
That’s where our love has found its place.

I am but a fleeting phrase, a sentence in your tome,
A whisper in your journey, where countless voices roam.
Yet, in my quiet brevity, a universe took flight,
Filling shelves of boundless thought in the corridors of night.

The libraries you have built within my fragile heart,
Each word, a gilded memory, a masterpiece of art.
I penned your name in starlight, on pages bound with dreams,
Ink flowing like a river through love's eternal streams.

Your smile, the prelude to a sonnet soft and true,
Your laughter, the refrain that the poets always knew.
I've scrawled you in the margins of the world I hold inside,
Where metaphors of longing in endless echoes bide.

Each fleeting glance, a chapter; each touch, a verse divine,
Your presence is the epilogue where I would rest my spine.
Though I am but a sentence, your spirit swells my page,
A symphony of essence no volumes could encage.

My quiet voice may falter as your story carries on,
Yet echoes of my cadence remain long after the dawn.
For though the ink may dwindle, and time may turn to dust,
The libraries I have crafted will never know distrust.

I am merely passing through, a footnote to your tale,
Yet your light ignites my parchment, a flame that will not pale.
So leave me in your chapter, or let my lines erase,
For still, you are the atlas of my soul's most sacred space.

In English, we say: I’m waiting,
as though time were a tether,
and we the obedient hounds of its pull.
But in poetry, my love, we speak in the hush
between syllables, where even the echo learns restraint.

I am not waiting, I am watering the silence
between a prayer and its reply,
learning the language of stillness,
where promises are not broken
but blossomed in unseen gardens.

I sit beneath the fig tree of not-yet,
where the fruit is ripening in shadows,
and the wind sings psalms
in the patient voice of maybe.

The world says go on,
but I, I have learned to listen
to the rhythm of unopened doors,
to trace the outline of a vow not yet spoken
but trembling like light on the lip of dawn.

Do not mistake my stillness for stagnation,
this is the sacred art of holding,
of becoming the space
in which miracles root quietly.

Here, in the cradle of not-knowing,
where breath meets breathless longing,
I am not stalled, I am aligned
with the holy hush that lives
between a whispered yes
and the thunder of its unfolding.

The day fell like a crumpled note,
tossed into the wastebasket of time,
a whisper, a cough, a footstep fading,
the sound of nothing,
the echo of things left unsaid.

I walked through streets without pavement,
over stones that remembered me not.
Each window was an eye, unblinking,
a stare of glass indifferent to grief.

The wind pressed against my cheek,
not a caress, not a blow,
just a presence,
like the weight of a name no longer called.

I did not weep, though my heart did,
a different kind of pain,
a betrayal of the body's rituals.

Tears demand permission,
but silence sneaks in, unbidden,
settles between the ribs,
lodges behind the throat,
a ghost pressing against the edges of breath.

And so the hours unravelled,
like a frayed sleeve in a forgotten coat,
threadbare, loose at the seams,
and still I walked,
searching for the shape of sorrow,
in the absence of rain.

Night came in its sensible shoes,
soft-footed, practical, gray.
No stars, no moon,
only the hum of a world
that did not know I was breaking.

I sat on the edge of the bed,
hands resting like relics on my knees.
And the heart wept again,
as it always does,
quietly,
where no one can see.

It starts like a whisper
threadbare promises,
soft hands hiding clenched fists
beneath the skin, bruises bloom quietly,
seeds of silence sowed in the dark corners of a home.

A smile fractured at the edge,
where love's architecture crumbles,
and the voice that was once free
is twisted into the shape of a question:
Am I not enough?

A door slams, not in anger
but in fear.
The echo swells in the bones,
stays in the walls,
turns a house into a prison
where every footstep is weighed with caution,
a rhythm of dread,
beating louder than the heart.

The world outside spins on,
but inside; there is no time,
no refuge, no escape.
Even sleep is just another war fought alone,
dreams choked by the shadow creeping
over pillowcases and quiet sighs.

And yet,
the grasp tightens with a smile.
It is tender, this violence,
a slow suffocation dressed as affection,
coated in apologies that evaporate
before they touch the air.
It doesn't arrive with storms,
but with lullabies that cut deeper
than screams ever could.

What is love in a house that forgets
the meaning of sanctuary?
Where the windows close
to keep the world out
and the mirrors crack
under the weight of too many lies told in silence?

It hides in plain sight,
in the slow erosion of spirit,
in the small sacrifices of self
until nothing remains but an echo,
a ghost tethered to the earth by fear,
too afraid to walk into the light
and too tired to fight the shadows
that cling like a second skin.

And the world wonders:
Why didn't they leave?
But it's not the leaving
it's the unraveling.
Each thread of identity,
each step towards the door,
pulls against a gravity that speaks
in the quiet voice of terror:
You'll never make it out.
You're already gone.

Still, in the deepest night,
there's a flicker, a spark,
a refusal to be fully extinguished.
The insidious grasp weakens,
as the heartbeat that remains
remembers its strength,
knows that hands meant to hold
do not leave scars.

And someday,
a door will open.
The house will breathe again,
and the quiet will become
a sanctuary once more.

When the weight of the world wraps tight round your chest,
And the days blur with ache, with no time to rest.
When the mind is a maze, and the breath feels thin,
And life drums too loud beneath trembling skin.

Pause...

Let the frantic pulse soften, the whirlwind grow still,
There’s no prize for the climb when it shatters your will.
This body, this heart, this soul made of grace,
Was not born to outrun some invisible race.

The throb in your temples, the twist in your gut,
The nights spent awake, mind slammed quickly shut.
These are whispers, not weakness, a plea from within,
“Be gentle, be kind. Let soft love begin.”

The world will not crumble if you step aside,
To breathe, to be quiet, to let stillness abide.
You are not lazy for tending your flame,
You are sacred and strong, not a cog in a game.

So cradle your fears like a child in your arms,
Speak softly to pain, disarm its alarms.
Rest is a right, not something to earn,
It’s the hearth of your healing, the place you return.

For stress may steal minutes, and wear on the soul,
But kindness and care can make broken things whole.
The bravest of hearts are the ones that confess,
“I need to slow down. I’m weary. I’ll rest.”

So lie in the stillness, let worries be few,
The most beautiful promise begins now with you.

In the hush between the ticking hours,
Where shadows curl beneath the tea-stained light,
I see you - yes, even now,
Even when you think the world has looked away.

You move through mornings like whispered prayers,
Gathering crumbs of courage from yesterday’s dreams,
Shouldering kindness like a well-worn coat,
Soft at the seams, but still stitched strong.

I see your effort,
Not the loud, banner-waving kind,
But the quiet heroism of simply rising,
Of showing up,
Of washing one more dish,
Smiling once more for someone else.

There is a grace in your weariness,
A dignity in your doubt.
You matter more than the world dares to tell you,
More than the mirror reveals
Or the silence admits.

Be gentle, dear traveller of tangled days.
You are not meant to outrun the dark
But to carry a candle within it.
And I,
With all the stars I can summon,
See you.

Tender thread that binds the heart so tight,
Yet loosens in the quiet of the night.
A trembling breath, a raw, unguarded gaze,
Where shadows dance in vulnerability's haze.

To feel exposed, as if the world lays bare
The fragile chords of all you hold with care.
No armour shields, no walls to hide behind,
Just fleeting whispers of a soul confined.

Yet, in this trembling state of soft despair,
A beauty blooms, unmatched, beyond compare.
For vulnerability, a sacred art,
Is where the truth resides within the heart.

It is the crack that lets the light seep in,
A gentle call to shed the faceless skin.
To stand unmasked, though shaken to the core,
And offer up the wounds that we deplore.

The strength it takes to let the world behold,
The fragile lines within your story told.
Is bravery in its most tender form,
A quiet storm within the raging storm.

For when the tears fall freely, unrestrained,
And fears no longer fight to be contained.
A space is carved where healing dares to grow,
A fertile ground where love begins to flow.

Oh, vulnerability, thy paradox,
A fragile strength that no chain ever locks.
To feel so open is to feel alive,
For in that softness, spirits learn to thrive.

So fear not, heart, the moments you feel weak,
For in that trembling lies the truth you seek.
Let courage rise through cracks and shadows deep,
And in your openness, your soul shall leap.

(The Weightless Dawn)

Oh, anxious heart, so tight in its hold,
A whispering storm, both silent and bold.
It creeps like shadows before the light,
Stealing the peace from the depths of night.

It tells you stories carved in fear,
Echoes of doubt you should not hear.
It pulls you under, a swirling tide,
Yet strength still stirs from deep inside.

Breathe, dear soul, let stillness grow,
Like rivers learning where to flow.
Not every thought is yours to keep,
Let them rise, then let them sleep.

For you are not the weight you bear,
Not tangled worry, nor thin-worn air.
You are the sky, vast and wide,
Holding the storms, yet letting them glide.

Inhale the dawn, exhale the past,
Not every storm is meant to last.
Feel the earth beneath your feet,
Steady, solid, calm, complete.

The moon still glows, the stars still shine,
Hope is etched in every line.
And when the night feels far too long,
Know in your soul, you still belong.

So take each moment, slow and kind,
A love-lit path within your mind.
Anxiety fades, like mist at sea,
And in its place, you set yourself free.

What do you see, nurse, when you look at me?
A frail, weary man lost in time's endless sea?
Do you sigh as you dress me, as you lift, as you feed,
Thinking my silence is nothing but need?

Do you see only hands that tremble and shake,
A mind lost in shadows, a body that breaks?
Do you see the dim eyes, the slow, shuffling gait,
A soul out of time, just awaiting its fate?

Look deeper, dear nurse, beyond this old skin,
Past the wrinkles, the frailty, the world closing in.
For once, I was young, with fire in my chest,
A heart full of dreams, unburdened, unpressed.

I was a child, with laughter so bright,
Running through fields bathed in golden-hued light.
I was a lover, my pulse racing wild,
Holding her close, love's innocent child.

I was a father, strong, steadfast, and true,
Teaching small hands what life could undo.
I built and I shaped, I gave and I grew,
Watched them all flourish, then bid them adieu.

Now time plays its tricks, and my body betrays,
Yet inside I am dancing through long-ago days.
My spirit still soars, though my body is weak,
My voice still longs for the words it can't speak.

So look at me, nurse, not as fading, not done,
Not just a burden, not just anyone.
See the years, the love, the battles, the scars,
The dreams that still shine like forgotten stars.

For within this old man, there's a soul fierce and free,
If only you'd look, if only you'd see.

You’ve wandered long through shadowed lands,
With trembling heart and open hands,
The clocks spun slow, the sky turned grey,
Yet still, you rose to meet the day.

A thousand questions marked your pace,
Who am I now? What is this place?
But hush - the wind, it softly knows,
The soul still grows, the spirit flows.

You wore your grief like autumn’s coat,
Then shed it when the spring took note.
The stars watched on with patient eyes,
As you began to reorganize.

Your path, your pace, your whispered dreams,
No longer bound to old regimes.
You dared to laugh, to love, to try,
Beneath a less familiar sky.

And though you walk with aching feet,
The journey’s song is bittersweet.
You are not lost - you’re being led,
By threads of gold the Fates have spread.

So question all! The love, the lore,
The quiet "why," the distant shore.
You’re not alone - just newly found,
Among kind hearts, profound and sound.

Step forward now with trust, with grace,
The future waits to know your face.
For all that’s past is not yet gone,
You’re just becoming who you’ve been all along.

They called you kind, a gentle soul,
Soft as petals, sweet and whole.
You bore the weight of every storm,
A refuge where the ruthless swarm.

You folded yourself in careful lines,
Shrank to fit their grand designs.
Smiled through wounds they couldn't see,
Convinced that love meant loyalty.

But kindness should not taste like chains,
Nor drown beneath another's pains.
To give is grace, but not to lose,
The voice, the light, the right to choose.

Why must your comfort come last in line?
Why must you dim so they may shine?
A heart so vast, yet bound so tight,
A sky eclipsed to spare the night.

No more. No more the whispered "yes,"
That bends your spine in self-duress.
No more apologies for thin air,
For taking space, for standing there.

To choose yourself is not unkind,
Not cruel, not selfish, just aligned.
Boundaries drawn with steady hands,
Are sacred vows, not harsh demands.

And those who love you, who truly see,
Will bless your rise, will set you free.
The rest will fall, like autumn leaves,
Carried off on silent eves.

So stand, unshaken, bold and true,
Unbowed by guilt they place on you.
For peace is not in being small,
It's daring, fully, to be your all.

When you place your heart upon the world again,
Do not seek the shadows of what you once knew,
For love that mirrors the past will carry the ache
Of battles lost, of hope that didn't break through.

Instead, search for the love you've never touched,
The kind that meets you where you stand today,
Not bound by echoes of what couldn't last,
But blossoming in this season, soft and brave.

It will come to you in ways unknown before,
Not in the shapes of memories worn and cold,
But in a laugh that lights a different sky,
In hands that hold you like they'll never let go.

And when it calls your name, it will not sound
Like voices of the love you used to know.
It will carve new stories, breathe fresh life
Into the corners of your soul left untouched, aglow.

It will settle deep within your bones, a fire
That's both unsettling and right, its warmth so near,
A love that feels too vast to fit in words,
A quiet strength that silences your fears.

So do not chase the ghosts of what has passed,
Do not seek the comfort of familiar pain.
Let this love be wild, unknown, untamed,
Let it rise to meet you in the sweetest refrain.

For what the past could not sustain, let go,
Your future holds the tender light of trust.
Welcome the love that comes anew,
For it is different, and it is just.

Pain is not a fleeting shadow,
nor a thief that steals in the night.
It settles deep, like roots in earth,
clutching marrow, dimming light.

It speaks in whispers, sharp and raw,
etching echoes through the bone,
a language carved in silent cries,
a weight we carry, yet unknown.

Yet, even in its cruel embrace,
where sorrow stains the breaking dawn,
the soul remembers how to rise,
though weary, aching, battle-worn.

For pain is not a sovereign king,
though it may claim the throne awhile,
it bows before the quiet strength,
that lingers in a weary smile.

We learn to hold it, not to break,
to breathe through fire, soft and slow,
to meet its presence, eye to eye,
and teach it when to stay or go.

Through tender hands, through patient steps,
we weave our wounds with threads of grace,
allowing light to find the cracks,
where love and courage interlace.

For pain is but a passing storm,
it bends, it rages, and it sways,
but hearts that learn to bear its weight,
will find their peace in softer days.

So let it teach, but not consume,
let it shape, but not define,
for even pain, when held with love,
becomes a bridge from dark to shine.

In shadowed streets where silence weeps,
And echoes chase the feet of time,
A whisper hums where sorrow sleeps,
“Stay soft,” it sings, “though life may climb
Its thorn-wrought walls and break your skin,
Do not let hardness settle in.”

For pain may press with quiet might,
May twist the dawn into the night,
But you, dear soul, are not your ache,
Not every bruise, not every break.
You are the hush between the rain,
The breath that rises after pain.

So let it hurt. Let teardrops fall
Like silver bells down sorrow’s wall.
Let it swell and let it sting,
Grief is a wild, untamed thing.
But let it heal. The heart, it knows
How even shattered gardens grow.

And when the ache begins to fade,
Like fog dissolved by morning’s blade,
Let it go—release its hold,
The stories pain has tried to mold.
You are more than what you bear,
A flame still dancing through despair.

So rise, as mist that greets the sun,
As rivers do when thaw has come.
Rise soft, rise fierce, rise with your grace,
The world may harden—but not your face.
Smile with the soul that’s weathered through,
There’s still a bloom inside of you.

Tears,
they carry weight,
more than saltwater breaking the dam—
they are the liquid syntax of our soul.

Unspoken words
blur the edges of vision,
and we tremble, not from weakness,
but from the quake of something deeper,
a chasm opening wide.

Sadness. Overwhelm. Rage. Joy.
It all pools into one common thread
invisible until it spills
across our cheeks.

Yet, society fears this flood,
as if emotions shouldn't break the surface.
We wear our stoicism like armour,
but real strength is in the unraveling.
In the wet confession
we try to blink away.

To cry is to translate
what words could never say,
to let the body speak
its native tongue,
pure, raw, unrefined.

Don't shut the floodgates.
Tears know the way.
They navigate the jagged landscapes
of grief, of joy, of loss, of rage,
dripping into the open wounds
we pretend are healed.

They tell us what we refuse to hear,
so we bow to them,
not in defeat, but in reverence,
for every tear is an offering
of truth we cannot bear alone.

In your light, I unlearn the dark,
its stiffened tongue, its cold resolve.
And I find instead a language made,
of warmth, of wind, of soft dissolves.

Love arrives not like thunder shouts,
but like a candle's trembling vow.
I feel it flickering against my ribs,
teaching my silence how.

In your beauty, verses form,
not sculpted, not conceived by mind.
But breathed, like morning on the rose,
a hush that petals leave behind.

Your grace makes metaphors collapse;
No simile can ever hold your flame.
Instead, I ink the hush between
your heartbeat and my name.

You dance inside my chest, unseen,
no witness, save this thrum I know.
A pulse of presence so profound,
it makes the blood inside me slow.

I do not speak to you, still you move,
a swirl behind my every sigh.
And when I glimpse you, rare and true,
a sacred star falls through my sky.

That sight becomes this trembling art,
not mine, but merely channelled breath.
A prayer-shaped hush, a flame-writ line,
that dares to love beyond all death.

You are the muse, the moon, the sea,
the silence in the shell I chart.
And in the unseen, you shape my song,
where deep in your being, I become art.

I. On the Nature of Smiles
A smile is a sneaky, invisible thing,
It creeps from the lips without flutter or wing,
But lo! when it lands on a stranger’s dull day,
It tickles the sorrow and shoos it away.

It travels through coffee shops, crosswalks, and queues,
It softens the sternest of daily-day news.
It has no real price, no receipt, no command,
And yet it could cradle the world in its hand.

II. The Grand and Glorious Hug
Now don’t underestimate (please, if you can)
The power of arms - be ye woman or man,
To wrap someone up like a parcel of peace,
To hush all the mayhem and grant them release.

A hug isn’t just for when sorrow attacks,
It’s also for moments when courage just lacks.
So squeeze with conviction, be warm, be profound,
A hug is a poem that needs not a sound.

III. Words of the Small-but-Mighty Kind
“Oh dear,” said the teacup, “I fear I may chip,”
Till a kind word arrived with a stiff upper lip.
“You're perfect,” it said. “You still hold the tea.”
And the teacup beamed back with revived dignity.

A phrase, just a whisper, can shatter the storm,
Can nudge someone’s heart back to hopeful and warm.
So toss kind words freely like petals or rain,
They land where they land, and they soften the pain.

IV. The Call to Now (and Never to Wait)
Oh yes, you may ponder, you may delay,
But kindness, my dear, was never that way.
It’s not for tomorrow or someday or soon,
It thrives in the morning, the dusk, and the noon.

So don’t be a waiter in life’s busy line,
Be wildly, ridiculously, wonderfully kind.
You never shall know what your ripple will do,
But I promise you this: it starts right with you.

Into the dream you come, unbidden,
A shadow forged from light, a storm concealed.
The delicate strands of my quiet haven,
Unraveled beneath your touch, unhealed.

Across the soft carpet of my reverie,
You tread with hobnail boots, a jarring song.
Each step a symphony of discord,
Yet strangely, I crave you to linger long.

The velvet mists of my tender musings
Once kissed my soul with whispers sweet.
Now, torn asunder by your intrusion,
They coil around your resolute feet.

Oh, but how can I resist this chaos?
This beautiful wreckage you leave in your wake?
You trample the fragile blooms of my solace,
But in their ruin, new dreams awake.

For each mark you etch on my tranquil spirit
Speaks of passion, raw and wild, untamed.
You are the storm to my placid meadow,
The fire that leaves me scalded, yet named.

Do you know the weight of your intrusion?
Do you see the paths you've scarred and worn?
And yet, I cannot bid you to leave,
For in your rapture, I am reborn.

Into the dream you come, relentless,
And I, the keeper of this fragile space,
Stand transfixed, as you carve your essence,
Into the contours of this sacred place.

So tread, my tempest, tread without mercy,
Let your boots resound in my dream's embrace.
For though you shatter, though you unmake me,
In your destruction, I find my grace.

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.

I have walked through evenings bent with silence,
where the hush of the streetlamp hums my name,
a hero, perhaps, in the whisper of one,
a villain in the frown of another.

I have been carved in shadows by the wary,
painted golden by the kind.
To some, I am a tempest in an unmade room,
to others, the hush of rain against glass.

Was it not yesterday I was brave,
standing tall in borrowed boots,
tilting at windmills with a fool's delight?
And yet, in another's eye, I trembled,
a thing too soft for the weight of days.

Oh, but how I have been too much!
A song sung sharp at the wrong table,
a fire burning too close to brittle walls.
And yet, to some, I have been warmth,
the quiet pulse of a lighthouse on tired waters.

I have been named.
Carved into stories I did not write.
Draped in colours I never chose.
Told where to stand, when to bow,
but the stage shifts beneath my feet.

The world is a house of mirrors,
each face a different truth,
each window another version of me.

So let me laugh at the fickle tide,
let me dance in the winds of contradiction,
let me live - oh, let me live!
not as the world sculpts me to be,
but as the wild, wandering shape of my own heart.

In life, so much is left behind,
But love's the thread that weaves the soul,
It's not a dream that slips through time,
But the force that keeps us whole.

We let go of hopes that once were bright,
Our visions shift, our passions fade,
Yet love, in all its quiet might,
Is the light that won't degrade.

Through every phase, each passing year,
Some things we outgrow, some we leave,
But love remains, forever near,
The truth we learn to believe.

Love's not a storm that takes its toll,
But the ground beneath our feet,
It holds us close, makes us whole,
And in its care, we find retreat.

It doesn't fit a fleeting mold,
Or lift us far from who we are,
Love, in its tender, gentle hold,
Is the most enduring star.

It's not a fairy tale we chase,
But the strength that helps us rise,
Love meets us in the simple grace,
Of everyday, beneath our skies.

To love is to be open wide,
To all it brings, in every hue,
It's in the way we learn to bide,
And let its healing guide us through.

So do not let your heart give way,
For love is more than just a dream,
It's the path that shows you day by day,
That life is deeper than it seems.

I close the book, its spine sighs shut,
the whisper of a thousand nights drawn in.
A chapter folds like hands in prayer,
but not all endings are so clean.

The lantern dims. The room forgets.
Yet on my fingers, dusk still clings,
not with fire, but with a bruise,
of words that bled with shaken wings.

I turned the page; it turned me back,
a mirror’s glance, a hollow swell.
The tale is done, but silence keeps,
what ink refuses to quell.

The parchment sleeps, but I remain
marked by the shadows love once wore.
We name it "past", but past is ink,
and ink remembers so much more.

So let the book stay closed awhile,
beneath the dust, beneath the rain.
The lines may fade, but not the ache,
of what was written in hurried vein.

There's a moment not a second in time, but a shift,
a break from the tug-of-war with the world,
where you stop begging for scraps of approval
and instead, become the feast.

You shed the weight of waiting,
the self that bent for someone else's gaze,
and you stand, naked in your truth
anointed by your own hands.

This is where it begins.
Not the hustle, not the hunger,
but the fullness of presence,
the light that once flickered inside you
now roars, unchecked, a wildfire of enoughness.

No more running from mirrors
or molding yourself into what they might love.
No more thirsting for the gaze of others
as though it could define the edges of your worth.
Instead, you shape yourself,
hold yourself, be with yourself.

In this stillness,
the world finally takes notice.
Not of what you chased, but what you are.
Suddenly, the current pulls toward you
people who don't just fit into your life,
but match your rhythm, your pulse, your fire.

The striving, the forcing, it all fades.
Instead, there's flow,
the universe turning on its axis,
slowly bending toward the centre you've found within.

And what once felt distant,
something to earn with sweat and sacrifice,
now arrives, effortless in its timing,
perfect in its place.

You don't rise to meet the world
the world rises to meet you.

And everything that matters
falls into step with the beat of your becoming.
Because the light inside you is no longer a flicker.
It's a sun,
and the whole world blooms beneath it.

Life is beauty, and life is pain,
a dance of loss, a song of gain.
It shimmers gold, then fades to gray,
a fleeting dawn, a waning day.

It lifts us high with whispered bliss,
soft lips that touch, a lover's kiss.
Yet breaks us, bends us, tests our will,
a mountain steep, a climb uphill.

It thrills, it aches, it sparks, it wanes,
it hums in blood, it roars in veins.
It is laughter, it is weeping,
a waking dream, a midnight creeping.

It is the light that warms the skin,
the fear of losing all within.
It is the hand that pulls you near,
the shadowed doubts, the strangling fear.

It is the mundane, the slow, the still,
the silent hours, the quiet will.
It is the rush, the reckless run,
the roaring fire, the setting sun.

Yet if we never knew the fall,
would heights be precious things at all?
If never lost in tempest deep,
would peace be something worth to keep?

The jagged path, the winding lane,
the burning loss, the hard-won gain,
they carve the heart, they shape the soul,
they make the fractured spirit whole.

So let us rise, though winds may chide,
embrace the waves, the turning tide.
For life's not meant to be a line,
its peaks and valleys make it shine.

Those clouds of life, how they gather near,
Carrying whispers of joy and fear.
Billowing dreams in the vast unknown,
Soft as a sigh, or sharp as a stone.

In silver hues, they cradle the sun,
A promise of light when the shadows run.
Yet in their grey, a storm may brew,
A tempest fierce, or a gentle dew.

They drift on winds both wild and still,
Over valleys deep and the steadfast hill.
Some bring sorrow, a heavy rain,
A torrent of tears, a season of pain.

But others weave in the azure sky,
Shaped like laughter, as they float by.
They are the canvas of hope's embrace,
Each streak of gold a radiant trace.

For clouds, though fleeting, paint the way,
A mirror of night, a herald of day.
They speak of change, of paths untread,
Of dreams unspoken, of words unsaid.

Those clouds of life, with their shifting form,
Teach us to dance through the fiercest storm.
To see in darkness the light concealed,
And in each drop, the strength revealed.

When life grows heavy and skies turn dark,
Look to the clouds for a fleeting spark.
For even in thunder, their beauty remains,
In cascading hues or the softest strains.

Those clouds of life, so vast, so wide,
Are the journeys we take, the tears we've cried.
Yet in their dance, there lies a truth,
Each shadowed sky renews our youth.

So let them gather, let them soar,
For the clouds of life are forevermore.

Upon my shelf, where dreams reside,
A console waits, my joy, my pride.
In quiet glow, it hums my name,
A portal vast, through worlds untamed.

In pixel light, I take my stand,
With Xbox controller in my hand.
Each button pressed, a silent vow,
To chase the stars, to seize the now.

Through realms unknown, through skies of fire,
It fuels my heart, ignites desire.
From battles won to quests begun,
It holds the moon, eclipses the sun.

Oh, Xbox, where my spirit may fly,
A place where endless wonders lie.
My love for thee, forever grows,
In every game, my heart bestows.


Version 2

Oh, Xbox, vessel of digital dreams,
In your embrace, time softly redeems.
With buttons that hum and triggers that sing,
You transport me to realms where heroes take wing.

In twilight hours, your glow fills the room,
Banishing shadows, dispelling the gloom.
Your worlds, so vast, stretch far beyond sight,
Where battles are waged 'neath stars burning bright.

Through dungeons, through forests, through skies ever high,
You lift me beyond where the mundane can fly.
From the thrill of a race to the clash of a fight,
You hold all my passions in pixels of light.

No mere machine, you're a key to a gate,
Unlocking adventures, defying my fate.
A bond that is cherished, so constant, so true,
My love for the Xbox will forever renew.

This is how you find your way,
Through shadows thick and skies of gray.
If you never try, you'll never see
The boundless strength that sets you free.

For buried deep within your soul,
A spark ignites to make you whole.
You'll never know how high you'll climb,
Until you dare defy the time.

The universe, so vast, aware,
Whispers softly, "I am there."
To hold, to guide, to help you soar,
To show you worlds and so much more.

The heart hesitates, the mind resists,
The unknown looms, a ghostly mist.
But in that haze, a gift may glow,
A promise of what you'll only know.

Uncertainty, a fearsome face,
Is but a mask for boundless space.
Each step you take, a door unfolds,
Revealing treasures your courage holds.

Infinite paths, untravelled bends,
Are laden with beginnings, not ends.
To grow, transform, expand, receive,
The unknown gifts when you believe.

So heed the pull, that whispered call,
Risk the stumble, risk the fall.
For dreams that linger, long untried,
Are seeds of magic waiting inside.

The path ahead, though veiled in mist,
Holds answers to the questions missed.
It's not so scary, not so wild,
It's the playground of your inner child.

So step into the vast unknown,
And claim the life that's truly your own.
For maybe, just maybe, this path you seek,
Is where your soul learns how to speak.

Inside us,
beneath the skin and the noise,
there's a child, eyes wide and open,
heart like fragile ink, waiting.

A child who needs no grand gesture,
no castles of promise or kingdoms of light,
just a sliver of softness, a single thread
to pull them into knowing
they belong.

They dwell in hidden pages,
the ones we often turn past too quickly,
marked by forgotten sighs,
footnotes of wonder, edged in longing.

They don't ask for much, really,
just a place in the margins,
a place in the prose where silence listens
and understanding holds them close.

Each of us,
a story unwinding,
scrawled on the chapters of bone and breath,
our pages turning, child, dreamer, seeker,
hoping someone will see
the ink stains beneath
and understand.

The cosmos breathes through your silken thread,
A shimmer stitched where starlight treads,
Each breath you take, a hush, a spark,
A song begun within the dark.

You walk, a lantern born of flame,
Yet hold no boast, nor cry your name;
The hush of galaxies leans in,
To hear your soul’s light stir the wind.

You are not small, though stars are grand,
You are the pulse in the sky’s own hand.
A symphony that dares to rise,
From silence, into sacred skies.

Let morning crown your brow with fire,
And let your gaze the heavens inspire,
For God in shadow, dust, and hue,
Finds voice and rhythm, here, in you.

It starts small,
a whisper, a flicker, a timid flame
in the middle of a vast, cold expanse.
You crave heat, but the fire takes its time,
growing only in the pauses, in the inches,
in the moments you almost gave up.

Progress is no storm
it's a soft drizzle on a thirsty earth,
seeping in quiet, unnoticed, until one day,
the roots push deeper, the stems grow taller.

You're tempted to curse the slowness,
the aching drag of it.
But to quit would be to stop the sun from rising,
to smother the flame with your own hand.

The world says "rush" while the earth whispers "wait."
And here you stand,
in the stillness, in the in-between,
learning the sacred art of slow.

Your heart is both warrior and sage,
carving a path where no path was,
each step a triumph, even when it feels like nothing.

You have already begun.
These small beginnings,
they are the birthplace of your mountains,
the cradle of your storms.

Do not despise the tender shoots that have yet to bloom,
for they will become forests if you let them.

Quitting would only steal the story
you were meant to tell,
a story written not in leaps,
but in a thousand quiet breaths of progress.

So hold fast.
This is your time,
your fire is growing.

Believe in the slow,
in the unseen,
in the yet-to-be.
You got this.

We gather in crowds and whisper of silence,
yearning for touch, yet wincing at hands.
The streets are swollen with voices we summon,
and still, we retreat to the rooms of our minds.

Oh, the terrible weight of desire and distance!
To love so fiercely, yet long to be free,
to build up our houses, then dream of the desert,
to drown in a sea of all we let be.

I have walked between wanting and not,
two corridors lit with a flickering doubt,
one draped in the velvet of intimate longing,
the other a door I am always without.

What a riddle it is, to be so divided,
to hold out a hand and wish it unseen,
to ache for the warmth of an offered embrace,
and shrink from the shadow it leaves in between.

Perhaps we are all just echoes of echoes,
laughing in rooms where no one can hear,
writing our names on the walls of each other,
then leaving, before they can ever appear.

Oh, take me back to the velvet night,
Where peace was woven pure and tight.
Those hours held in simple grace,
With no regrets, no need to chase.

Before the tangled webs of thought,
When dreams were simple, unbesought,
And pillows held no secret cries,
Only the softest lullabies.

Take me back to tender years,
Before the haunt of hidden fears,
When stars above would kindly glow,
And let the restless mind let go.

Where every worry fled the scene,
And slumber rose, soft and serene.
I miss the hush, the childlike ease,
A silent drift upon night's breeze.

Now, thoughts unfold in endless scroll,
Whispers deep within the soul.
The mind, a maze, no rest in sight,
Bound tight, unraveling each night.

Take me back to softer lands,
Where calm would hold me by the hand,
And sleep was peace, and dreams were free,
Oh, take me back, take back that me.

We build our dreams on scaffolds high,
In shadowed spires that scrape the sky,
A better dawn, a gilded flame,
Forever just beyond a name.

We trade the breath that warms the now
For plans that Time will disallow.
We barter joy for schemes unmet,
Our tea goes cold, our eyes forget.

A better morrow, whispers Fate,
So hush your heart, be patient, wait.
Yet when it comes in morning’s gold,
We chase another tale we're told.

We stitch our days with the thread of when,
Then we unpick and start again.
The orchard blossoms in our chest,
But we march on, not taking rest.

We chase horizons made of glass,
Reflections in the future's mass,
Too blind to sip the wine we poured,
Too deaf to hear the hush, "You’re more."

Let us then, for once, be bold,
Unpack our laughter, break the mould.
Taste the fig, and feel the rain,
Kiss the sun, release the strain.

Not every dawn must rise with fire,
Not every hour must build the spire.
Sometimes the miracle is this:
A held hand, a breath, a bite, a kiss.

So let us lift our cups today,
And drink the dusk, and dance the clay,
For what is future, but delay,
When now is aching to simply stay.

Communication is key,
A phrase like a door, but only half-ajar.
We speak, syllables tumbling like stones,
but do you listen,
or just wait for your turn to reply?

The words I carve from my breath,
sharp-edged and raw,
I offer them to you like a map,
tracing the scars of my mind,
the fractures of my heart.

But if your eyes glaze,
a wall of glass, reflecting only yourself,
then why do I bleed words?
Why do I bother?

It's not the saying, but the hearing,
the seeing beneath the surface,
the understanding stitched between the lines,
that binds us together.

Otherwise, we are just noise
colliding voices in a silent room,
talking to the walls,
while pretending we're understood.

So, if I speak, don't just nod.
Unravel my meaning,
see where I stand in the shadows of these words.
Or else, we're just two monologues,
adrift, never really speaking at all.

As the dawn unfolds on twenty-twenty-five,
Let us awaken, fully alive.
With tender hearts, let’s set the tone,
To love ourselves, to make it known.

Not in grand gestures or towering feats,
But in quiet moments, life’s simple treats.
The whisper of leaves, the warmth of the sun,
The quiet triumphs when the day is done.

For growth resides not just in acclaim,
But in unseen sparks that light the flame.
The courage to pause, to breathe, to feel,
The smallest joys that make life real.

Take the leap, though shadows loom,
The path ahead may yet bloom.
Trust the compass within your chest,
It leads you true, it knows you best.

Dare to be bold, dare to be free,
Life’s too short to dim your spree.
Wear your heart upon your sleeve,
In your own worth, always believe.

Choose your circle with gentle care,
Find those who uplift, who truly dare
To stand beside, through storm and sun,
Your soul’s companions, the chosen ones.

Be kind, be love, a radiant guide,
A mirror of hope for the world outside.
In every moment, let beauty unfold,
Each breath a story, precious and bold.

Let us make twenty-twenty-five divine,
A year to cherish, a year to shine.
Together we’ll walk, through joy and strife,
Creating a masterpiece of life.

Books gather dust in closed rooms,
their spines like stiffened backs,
knowledge locked in pages,
curled tight like fists.

All it takes is the crack of a cover
to spill ink into the air,
to paint the world in colours we've never seen.

Minds, too, fold in on themselves,
like umbrellas in the rain,
useless when clutched shut,
their potential drenched
in ignorance's downpour.

But open and they bloom,
each rib unfurling like a petal,
catching storms, turning deluge into poetry.

There's no shelter in stagnation,
no wisdom in walls.
Books, minds, umbrellas
they were never meant to stay closed.
Only when we risk the rain can we finally see the sun.

In the quiet hum of a world that rushes,
Where footfalls echo on broken stone,
A voice still sings in the hush of hushes,
A heart still beats, though left alone.

Oh, cruel hands of time and trial,
They twist, they turn, they seek to mold,
Yet something lingers, tender, vital,
A warmth untouched by bitter cold.

The world, in its grumble, its clatter, its din,
Would etch its sorrow upon your skin,
Would carve you sharp, would make you steel,
Would teach you nevermore to feel.

But hush, dear soul, and hold your ground,
Let not the world make you unkind,
For in the hush of love profound,
Softness reigns, yet never blind.

Take pride in light the world denies,
In sugar spun from sorrow’s thread,
In laughter ringing under skies,
That some might call a dream long dead.

Oh, wear your sweetness like the dawn,
Let cynics sneer, let shadows call,
For even when the world moves on,
A heart that loves outlives them all.

A whisper stirs within the mind,
a seed of light, a thread unspooled,
where once the winds of doubt would bind,
now dawn ignites the vast and true.

For thoughts, like rivers, carve their way,
through valleys deep, through stone and sand,
they shape the world, they cast the day,
they sculpt the soul with unseen hands.

What if the storm inside could cease?
What if the weight we bear could shift?
What if a thought could birth release,
and turn the dark to golden mist?

The mind - a garden, wild and free,
can bloom with thorns or fields of grace,
can weave despair or destiny,
can paint the stars, can find embrace.

The past is ink that need not stain,
tomorrow waits with open palm,
no chain remains that thought can't tame,
no fire too wild for hope's cool balm.

So think in love, let kindness bloom,
let mercy breathe where pain has slept,
let faith outgrow the ghosts of gloom,
let trust reclaim what fear once kept.

For change is not some distant land,
nor bound by fate, nor ruled by time,
it lives within your open hand,
it breathes inside your quiet mind.

So shift the thought, the path will bend,
release the weight, the soul will rise,
for all begins where visions send,
change the thought, and touch the skies.

Don’t seek the mirror's fleeting gaze, my friend,
For beauty bends and fades with time's own hand.
The bloom of youth, so fragile and so brief,
Cannot outlast the seasons' endless span.

But oh, your laughter, warm as morning light,
Will age like wine, and with each passing day
It gains a richer hue, a brighter flame,
A gift that even sorrow can't betray.

Your intuition, woven like a cloak,
A tapestry of wisdom, strong and grand,
Will wrap you in its folds, a royal guide,
To steer you through life's ever-shifting sands.

And battles, once too tempting to engage,
You'll leave behind like whispers in the wind.
You'll pick the worthy causes, sharp and clear,
And learn to let the petty wars rescind.

In stillness, like a lotus you will grow,
Each moment blossoms in your mindful grasp.
The present, once elusive, now in reach,
A treasure far too precious to unclasp.

Your heart will learn what time alone can teach,
What's worth your care, what's worthy of your soul.
Like ivy creeping up a castle's wall,
Your sense of worth will flourish and take hold.

So chase not beauty's ghost, my dearest friend,
It shifts and fades like shadows on the shore.
Instead, let all your essence shine and sing,
The traits that make you 'you' forevermore.

For in the end, what truly draws us near,
Is not the face, but hearts that hold us dear.

The clock ticks closer, its hands align,
To mark the threshold, a sacred line.
A year once weary fades to mist,
As hope ignites in a joyful twist.

The night awakens with festive cheer,
To welcome bright a brand-new year.
The air is ripe with a thousand dreams,
As stars embroider midnight streams.

Fireworks bloom in the velvet sky,
A radiant promise, a bold goodbye.
To moments past, both sweet and bittersweet,
We bow in grace, our hearts replete.

Traditions weave their timeless thread,
Of feasts prepared and prayers said.
Families gather, champagne flows,
Bonds are cherished as the New Year glows.

Resolutions rise, both strong and frail,
Whispers of hope that seek to prevail.
"To love more deeply, to dream anew,
To honour the courage within me and you."

Candles flicker, casting light,
On shadows that danced in the fading night.
The future beckons with open arms,
A symphony sweet, of endless charms.

Happy New Year, your magic profound,
A sacred hymn, a joyful sound.
You carry the promise of untold days,
A canvas awaiting our vibrant ways.

Through celebrations that heal and bind,
Traditions passed to heart and mind,
We honour the past, embrace the now,
And say 'lets go' with steadfast vow.

So, let us toast with hearts sincere,
To a luminous, blessed, and bright New Year.
May dreams take flight, and love be true,
As the world awakens, refreshed, renewed.