Ashes and Anchors

The world stares with folded arms—stone-eyed, mute,

when dreams wear shoes too big for your feet.

They laugh at stumbles, sip your sorrow like sweet fruit,

naming your becoming as defeat.

Their words, thorns hidden in golden vines,

wrap ‘round the ribs till breath resigns—

yet still, the heart drums war into the dark.

I carried silence like a coffin on my back,

as voices carved scars I learned to stitch with hope.

Even the mirror doubted me—cracked,

showing a face learning how to cope.

But seeds do not scream while underground—

they wait, they swell, they break the bounds—

and rise in green despite the stones thrown down.

Now I walk—not to prove, but to become,

with scars worn soft like prayer beads in palm.

The sun is no longer a stranger's drum,

it sings of harvest, not of harm.

Let them talk—I have tuned my ears to truth,

and built my tomorrow on ruins of youth.

The path is mine, and I tread it, unshaken.

©Bunguswa™