Like moths drawn to flame, they flutter near—
these restless souls who carry weight of unspoken longings in their chests,
their whispered words a prayer
for something they cannot name.
What drives them to this circling dance?
Perhaps the same force that pulls
the ocean toward the moon,
that bends the sunflower's face
toward light it cannot touch.
In their borrowed anger lives
a mirror they refuse to hold—
the reflection of their own
unfinished becoming,
their own untended gardens
where envy grows like wildflowers
in soil they've forgotten how to tend.
I have become their meditation,
their mantra spoken in reverse—
each harsh word a step closer
to the truth they cannot bear:
that I am not their enemy,
but the embodiment of dreams
they've convinced themselves
they're too broken to pursue.
And so I dwell, rent-free, in the sacred spaces of their minds, not as conqueror, but as catalyst— the uncomfortable question that follows them to sleep: What if you turned this energy toward your own becoming?
For in the end, we are all
just walking each other home,
even when we've forgotten
the way.
(s.shah)
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