Poet

Life, like a river; Sometimes fierce, Sometimes a realm of silent winter nights. The past gathers, layer by layer, I see colors, I wear them, Becoming new within this cage of an aging body. But what keeps me afloat, then? What is this endless haste?

After passing by countless people, we finally surrender to just one — someone we can no longer move past, no matter what.All the thorns and tangles somehow align — the good, the bad, the tears, sleepless nights, ocean-deep joys — everything gets stitched around that one person like a thread through a needle. We can’t