The healer’s touch is soft and deep,
A silent whisper, where wounds sleep.
It speaks in stillness, slow and kind,
A balm for body, soul, and mind.
With hands that know the unseen pain,
They mend the broken, heal the strain.
No words are needed, only grace,
A knowing smile, a quiet space.
They hold the weight of silent cries,
The hidden sorrows in your eyes,
And with each stroke, each careful sweep,
They guide you back to love’s embrace.
Through every scar, through every bruise,
They help the heart to learn, to choose—
To rise, to trust, to break the chains,
And let the light in through the veins.
The healer’s touch is not their own,
It’s carried through them, softly shown—
A gift that’s passed from hand to heart,
A sacred art that heals the parts.
So when you feel the ache within,
Remember there’s a love to win,
A hand to hold, a soul to reach,
A healer’s touch that softly speaks.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and light,
Brenda Marie
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