Soft Mirrors: The Page I Hold Is Me

I stand in the cradle of my hand, a blank page—yet full of storms and sun. Every mark I dreamed but never drew, lives quietly in its imagined hue. Ups and downs, like silent waves, etched in the paper I never gave. And still I smile—fulfilled, for pain was the brush that willed my rise each time I fell, my art, the story I had to tell.