Words like arrows slip and fall,
breaking calm with sudden squall;
shadows stretch where light once lay,
silence stealing breath away.
Fury grows from scattered seeds,
planted deep by shallow needs;
storms that build from whispered doubt,
doors we slam, then lock without.
Tides of anger kiss the shore,
dragging hopes we made before;
eyes that once could light the skies,
cloud with heavy, hurtful cries.
In the tremble of the hour,
love can lose its fleeting power;
tongues, once soft, turn sharp and cold,
arms, once warm, recoil from hold.
Smallest stones make giants trip,
slightest wounds can break the lip;
quiet glances build their walls,
echoing in empty halls.
Pride becomes a crown of thorns,
sharp and cruel, though once was worn;
hearts retreat to secret keeps,
hiding dreams they could not keep.
Still, beneath the rubble's weight,
tender roots negotiate;
seeds of mercy start to bloom,
even in the broken room.
Time, the weaver, mends the thread,
stitching words we left for dead;
through the tears and bitter sound,
softer voices still are found.
Hands once clenched in anger's flame,
loosen, reach, and sign a name;
names we spoke in sweeter years,
brushed anew through falling tears.
From the clash of wounded skies,
gentle stars again arise;
promises, though bruised and torn,
reignite in softer form.
Some tempests rage, others wane,
some are songs, and some are pain;
yet each time the dawn will break,
fragile hopes will learn to wake.
Tremors pass, but mountains stay,
even as the storms decay;
so our bond, though sometimes frail,
finds its way beyond the veil.
In the quiet after rain,
petals bloom from roots of pain;
bitterness dissolves in streams,
carving paths for sweeter dreams.
Thus we speak with careful hands,
building bridges through the sands;
each apology, a stone,
laid to make a way back home.
And when all the wars are still,
love, the architect, will fill—
all the fractures, all the scars,
with the wisdom earned from wars.