Not you the wound. Not I the rescued one. I rise from ashes louder than the ruins. Each step tomorrow offers me is spun across the self I never got to loosen.

In ringing dark, with heart on borrowed time, I gather days like goblets after feasting. Each shard is mine: my silence, my half-rhyme, my loss still burning, naming me, unceasing.

To love is not to live. To love is flame, is breathing heat until the prayers harden. I fell to pieces — neither weak nor tame — to stand again. Not whole, but still unguarded.

And if the light will weigh me for the truth, for all I hid and all I bared too late in winter, let it behold: I'm built of ash and youth, of pride, of tears, of will that won’t surrender.

So live I must. Through stone, through bitter climb. I guard my sharp, unbroken, breaking chorus. Who once was shattered learns the edge of time: he chooses light. And light admits him — porous.

Year: November, 2025 Digital Art drawn in Procreate [size 6000*9000 pixels] The poem written by me Music is composed by me and AI