Unfinished things do not decay,
they haunt, they gnaw, they never stray.
But what you end becomes your key
a crown of silence, setting you free.

Despair sharpens it's claws at the very edge of victory.....for it knows the taste of completion will silence it FOREVER

Branches whisper, then betray,
yet feathers do not lose their way.
The fall is only earth’s disguise,
a summons for your wings to rise.

Do not grieve the wood’s deceit,
you carry heavens beneath your beat.

....you were never meant to cling to wood, you were always meant to fly

Hope is not loud. It hums beneath ruin—
a secret flame that remembers
the shape of dawn.

Hope is the child that names the sky after her mother, long after the war has taken her
Hope is the man who plants a tree he will never sit beneath
Hope is the scream that never dies
do not tell me Hope is weak

You mourn the self you never fed.
A flame you watched starve out instead.
Yet in your chest, it softly seethes,
The ghost of all you might still breathe.

"Because the tragedy is not in being lost, it is knowing the way home....and choosing not to walk it"