They wander in search of ancient shrines,
Endlessly roaming, people seek the divine.
Each day, a new address for God, they say—
Even He seems to move away.

I’ve watched the roads, the cars, the skies,
Even learned to watch my thoughts arise.
No one leaps to a final stand,
Man merely roams across the land.

When the wind, with careless grace,
Blows away cheap plastic bags in chase.
I've seen, at the edge of fleeting delight,
So many drift through the dreamy life.

All joy and sorrow now congeal,
Even the finest feels unreal.
Wearing pride as his only name,
A hidden serpent feeds on pointless fame.

And leaving behind the soul of sight,
He spins in circles, day and night.
Rather than stepping deep within,
He dances round the veil of sin.

I’ve watched the roads, the cars, the skies,
Even learned to watch my thoughts arise.
No one leaps to a final stand,
Man merely roams across the land.

They wander in search of ancient shrines,
Endlessly roaming, people seek the divine.
Each day, a new address for God, they say—
Even He seems to move away.

Some people feel like wildflowers.
Not because they're alone—
but because they always have to grow
where no one thought to plant them.

They’re the ones who hold it together
when no one’s checking if they’re okay.
The ones who carry their own weight,
and everyone else’s too—
because it’s easier than asking for help
and being met with silence.

They’re the “strong ones,”
so no one sees their softness.
No one asks about the tears
they wipe in bathroom stalls
between being “fine” and being “functional.”

They show up.
Even when it hurts.
Even when their chest is tight
and the noise of the world
feels like sandpaper on their soul.

They don’t want pity. They just want someone
to notice how tired they are of blooming in the dark.
Of being beautiful in ways no one stops to admire.
Of offering warmth when they haven’t felt it in weeks.

They want
—not the spotlight— but a soft place to land.
A voice that says:
“It’s OK. You don’t have to be strong today.”

And maybe you’re one of them.

Maybe you're tired, too.

So let this be a hand on your shoulder,
a whisper in your storm:
You matter.
You are not invisible.
And you don’t have to bloom alone.