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.”