Soft Mirrors: Echoes in the Grain

I held the page not to read, but to feel— its silence deeper than black ink could reveal. Shapes like shadows, born from sleep, float from the depths I buried deep.

Each mark—a scar, a secret sigh, drawn not with hand, but with the cry of nights I folded into thought, and mornings where I almost fought.

There is no name for this design, only echoes in the paper’s spine. A mind not seeking light to find, but peace in knowing it survived the grind.