I opened my mouth to speak,
but the words came out smoke
a fire I’d fed with dreams too flammable to hold.
They said, write your future,
but handed me a pen that bled doubt.
And here I am,
not out of ink,
but drowning in all the things
I was too alive to say
and too tired to dream again.

And thats how your prose poetry bled into my cup of stone
Like fine wine aged but made you grow blue

You speak like a forest
that remembers the flame.
The kind of silence you carry
is not quiet
it’s the hush before a storm
that forgot how to rain.

They fed you dreams like sugar,
wrapped in sunlight and soft songs.
Told you the sky was yours
if only you’d grow wings.
But no one said
how heavy it is to fly
with roots still buried in cracked earth.

Now, the soil aches.
The trees hum of ghosts.
You walk through orchards
where no fruit hangs
only scorched branches
and the echo of “almost.”

But listen.

Even ash is a kind of promise.
Even the blackened bark
knows how to bloom again.

You are not lost
you are fermenting,
deep in the unseen.
A season of decay
before the spring.

Let the crows circle.
Let the stars go dim.
Even moons must rest
before they rise full again.

You are not done.
You are gathering.
What feels like an end
is only the soil
learning your name.

**
Name you free, teach you in glassed cage
Still Ashes Rise Again

By: Zoulaikha