All one can do is tell—just speak the road,
The gravel heart, the burdens we have towed.
No map was drawn, no signs lit up the way,
Just stars that blinked and hopes that went astray.
We walked through fire that no one else could see,
With wounds that bled in quiet dignity.
Each step, a question. Each breath, a prayer.
Each fall, a truth too heavy to declare.
But still, we rose—sometimes on shattered knees,
And told the wind, “Remember this, please.”
Not for applause, nor pity’s soft caress,
But so another heart might hurt a little less.
The telling is the torch—we pass it on,
A light for those whose nights are far too long.
And maybe in our voice, they find their own,
Or learn they never truly walked alone.
We cannot shield them from the coming rain,
Or spare them every echo of our pain.
But in the sharing, something brave is grown—
A path that whispers, “You can still go on.”
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and Light,
Brenda Marie
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