by Liam

Beneath the quiet breath of morning’s rise,

It’s not the world that shapes me—

I am the quiet architect of each hour,

Weaving time’s tender threads:

The who, the why, the where, the unfolding how.

Who else can hold the sun within their chest?

A heart so fierce it breaks through sorrow’s weight,

Not simply to mend, but to bloom and grow anew.

For like a ripple stirred by a single drop,

Light, too, spreads in waves, dissolving night,

Again and again, the dawn is ours to claim.

With it comes the call to rise, to heal,

To change the course, and set things right.

So let us stand in the light we bear,

And shape the world with hands of care.

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