Slow is Smooth

They see me still, and call it slow—

A wasted hour, a no-show flow.

But in my quiet, there’s a tune,

A rhythm whispered to the moon.

I rest, not quit. I breathe, not stall.

The steady ones outlast the brawl.

For slow is smooth, and smooth is wise,

It moves like wind beneath the skies.

Smooth is fast, but not unkind,

It leaves no scattered mess behind.

Each step is sure, each move is clear,

No flinch of doubt, no flash of fear.

But fast—too fast—can turn to dread,

A rush that leaves the soul half-dead.

A spark becomes a fire unplanned,

Too wild for even fate to stand.

So let them scoff, and call me late,

I walk the path they complicate.

For resting is not retreat or flight—

It’s drawing strength before the fight.