Poem: Healing

I went not gently, not with grace,
But clawed my way through shadowed space—
Through tangled roots of old despair,
Through memories, I could not bear.

No quick fix here, no fleeting light,
Just endless days and longer night.
I dug beneath the surface pain
To find the source, the buried stain.

The echoes rose, a mournful choir—
Regret, like smoke, became a fire.
And still I sat, through ash and flame,
To call each haunting by its name.

The child I was, the wounds I hid,
The tears I choked, the truths I did—
They surfaced slow, like ghosts set free,
To stand at last and speak through me.

I screamed. I wept. I let it break.
I learned how much a soul can take.
But through the cracks, a strange thing grew:
A softer self, a deeper truth.

Forgiveness came, not fast, but real—
A whisper only time can feel.
And layer by layer, breath by breath,
I made my peace with love and death.

No map was drawn, no end was known,
Just deeper still, and more alone—
Until I found, in darkest part,
A fierce, resilient, beating heart.

So healing’s not a gentle climb—
It’s falling, rising, lost in time.
But every scar and silent scream
Becomes a thread within the dream—

The dream that one day we’ll emerge,
Not as we were, but re-converged:
A soul rebuilt from shatters past—
Not broken now, but whole, at last.