You

I go to bed somedays crying. crying.
The weight of a world unbound,
a world breaking, breaking,
splintered under hands that forgot how to hold.

There is a name I whisper in the silence. silence.
A name I do not know, but I do.
A savior. A healer. A bridge.
I whisper it because it keeps me alive.
Because without it, there is only the breaking.

I want to believe in something. something.
Not just the stars.
Not just the soil beneath my feet.
I want to believe that light doesn’t vanish
but waits, waits, waits.

They tell me stories of saviors.
Krishna’s dance. Jesus’ cross. Buddha’s mind.
Not just gods, but wounds.
Wounds that bleed the same as mine,
hearts that break,
but break open. open.

And I wonder, what if they are not above us?
What if they are us?
What if the savior is a whisper,
a flame,
a seed buried deep
where the ache lives?

I go to bed somedays crying. crying.
But I wake.
And the sun rises,
carrying pieces of me I thought I lost.
And the world rises,
carrying stories of those who rise. rise.

I want to believe that redemption is not far.
Not a promise carried on distant winds.
I want to believe it is here. here.
In my hands. In your hands. In all hands
learning to hold again.

I cry for the breaking.
I cry for the shattering.
But I cry, too, for the hope that grows between the cracks.
For the song that lives in the silence.
For the savior I find,
not above,
not beyond,
but within. within.

The savior in all of us. us. you.
You. You. You.
It was always you.
It is the world,
breaking.
Healing.
Whole.

~ Freedom