Poem: The Only Balm

A soul wound runs where eyes can’t see,
Beyond the reach of remedy.
No bandage binds what broke within,
No time alone can truly mend.

The body knows the art of scars,
It heals beneath the sun and stars.
But deeper cuts the silence leaves,
Where sorrow folds and spirit grieves.

You’ll search in books, in fleeting touch,
In golden things that promise much—
But none can fill that hollow place,
Or lift the veil from spirit’s face.

For what is torn in soul, not skin,
Needs fire that softly burns within.
Not flesh, but breath; not blood, but flame—
A whispered truth we dare not name.

So call the spirit—not of man,
But something vast, without a plan.
It speaks in dreams, in winds that pass,
In broken light through stained glass.

And when it comes, as still as dawn,
The pain remains—but power’s drawn.
Not to forget, or make it new,
But just to live—more whole, more true.

For soul wounds stay, but something grows:
A knowing no one else bestows.
The spirit comes—not to erase—
But lay a hand, and leave its grace.