OnE

In the forge of first breath,

you were hammered from hidden fire—

not to hoard the spark, but to scatter it,

a comet’s tail across the void we call visible.

Be the ache that blooms thorns into roses,

the question that cracks the dawn open.

Let the rituals rust if they chain you;

your knees in the circle are altar enough.

One day, you’ll slip the skin of “me,”

fold into the chorus of unseen symphonies—

that light we strain for, blindfolded,

where every fracture refracts the eternal.

Not lost, but luminous.

Not alone, but all-one.