7 poems
He gave them everything: his body became instrument, his voice remade what sound could grieve,
Ironic how, as children, we were told to ask, to question all, to never wear the mask of blind acceptance, “seek and wonder still!” yet were silenced by those very voices, against our will.
Even blossoms split their seams to reach the sun. Becoming hurts before it heals, yet still, we ought to rise.
When we were young, we leaned into the wind, faces tipped toward a future bright with dread and longing— that exquisite trembling at the threshold of becoming.
The stone that refuses weather becomes its own cliff; everything else erodes around it until it looks like the one that moved.
Turn the mountain into pebbles, yet measure not your strength by the climb. Many heave with tireless hands,
Wretch that I am, weighed down by these ailing thoughts