Poem: Whispers from My Higher Self

In quiet folds of morning’s breath,
Where thoughts fall still, escaping death,
A voice not mine, yet born of me,
Speaks soft as wind moves through a tree.

Not loud, not sharp, not clothed in flame—
It knows no pride, it seeks no name.
It hums behind the clamor’s swell,
A sacred sound I know too well.

“Be still,” it says, “You are not lost.
Your battles bloom, but bear their cost.
Let go the grip on what won’t stay—
The truth will come when you give way.”

It doesn’t chide, it doesn’t plead,
It offers what I truly need:
Not answers carved in black and white,
But questions lit with quiet light.

I rarely hear it in the noise,
In fear, in fire, in borrowed voice—
But when I soften, shed control,
Its whisper echoes through my soul.

And then I rise, not proud, but whole,
Led not by force, but by a soul
That’s always known the way to me—
Beyond the storm, beneath the sea.