Poem: The way Back

The Way Back

There is a room inside you
that has never learned the language of applause.
It does not measure worth
by calendars filled
or trophies gathering dust.

It waits.

Not impatiently—
like the sea waits for rivers,
certain they remember
where they belong.

You may arrive carrying years
like heavy coats,
stitched together with expectation,
regret,
and names you answered
that were never yours.

The room will ask for none of them.

It will know you
by the sound of your silence,
by the heartbeat beneath the noise,
by the small light
you mistook for a distant star
when it had always been
behind your ribs.

Sit there awhile.

Let the world continue
without your constant explanation.
Let the wind finish sentences
you no longer need to hold.

The soul does not demand perfection.
It asks only
that you come home honestly.

Perhaps you will weep.
Perhaps you will laugh
at how familiar your own reflection feels
without the borrowed masks.

Then, little by little,
you will remember:

You were never lost—
only walking through crowded places
without hearing your own footsteps.

And when you rise,
the path will not be brighter
because the world has changed.

It will be brighter
because you have finally turned
to face the quiet sun
that has been waiting within you
all along.

Thank-you for reading.

Brenda Marie