In the alleyways of my own making,
I hear the sounds and echoes of what was-
echoes that clung like vines,
sounds whispering against the rugged walls of thought.
A cell of self,
where every shadow remembers my name.
The air hums with a heavy weight,
and I reach for doors
that dissolve into nothing before my hands.
Yet time moves, even in silence.
The tides returns,
and I am carried along among its gentle ruins.
Fragments of me, splintered and water-worn,
still breathing beneath the surface.
Once forgotten, I rise again-
with the salt of old storms caked in my hair.
There is quiet power
Now the sea recedes,
and I step onto new ground-
skin marked and heart steady.
Scars glint like constellations,
mapping the places I’ve been undone.
What was pain becomes pattern,
what was loss becomes form.
Salt clings softly to my skin,
not as hurt,
but as proof that…….
I have walked through echo and tide,
through ruin and renewal.
Yet I am still here-
shaped but not defeated,
changed but still becoming.