I lay it down—
this weight I’ve carried in silence,
the hush of what was never spoken,
the tender burden tucked beneath the day.

I lay it down
as one might offer a thread of gold
to the edge of the sea—
not to cast away,
but to entrust.

No more do I hold what was never mine to mend.
No more do I gather the fragments
as if wholeness could be shaped by hands alone.

There is a grace in release,
a quiet sanctity in unfastening the grip.
And so, I yield—
not in resignation,
but in reverence.

I stand in the hush that follows yielding—
where breath deepens
and presence blooms like light across still water.

What once clung as shadow
softens in the presence of stillness.
What once pierced
now passes like wind through silk.

There is a wisdom that asks nothing,
a quiet that restores without demand,
where the soul, at last, may rest.

And when I rise,
it is with a still heart,
a gentler rhythm,
and a hush within me
that does not speak, yet stays.

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