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When the Mind Cries

We do not walk by sight, but flame—   A quiet fire that speaks no name.   It does not add, it does not prove,   It simply calls the soul to move.   If all made sense, if all was clear,   Then doubt would have no room for fear.   No leap would span the great unknown,   And trust would never stand alone.   But here we stand where reason ends,   Where broken hearts begin to mend.   Not by the map, but by the light   That flickers gently through the night.   For faith is not a puzzle solved,   Nor tidy truths neatly evolved.   It lives where logic halts its race—   A trembling step, a silent grace.   So when the mind cries, “Make it plain!”   And seeks to soothe its ache with gain,   We whisper back through storm and strife:   “It does not make sense—   …that is why it gives life.”
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Truth So Simple

Through shadows cast by mighty trees,  
Where whispers drift upon the breeze,  
A quiet hum begins to grow,  
A voice the world has yet to know.  

Not the roar of crowded halls,  
Nor echoing chants through marble walls;  
But soft and steady, clear and bright,  
A spark that pierces endless night.  

A child’s plea, a trembling word,  
A truth so simple, yet unheard.  
The smallest voices, raw and pure,  
Bear cries of change that will endure.  

A ripple spreads across the sea,  
A beacon guiding hearts to see.  
Their call, though faint, can shift the tide,  
And topple mountains long denied.  

For courage blooms where fear once reigned,  
And wisdom grows where hearts have pained.  
The smallest voices, sharp and keen,  
Reveal the dreams we’ve never seen.  

So hear the whispers, soft and low,  
The truths that gentle souls bestow.  
For even stars in endless skies  
Are born from sparks the world denies.

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