The air was heavy, thick with the old night’s dream, A stillness pressing, where no soft light could gleam. The clock’s slow tick, a metronome of fear, Marked time suspended, year upon grey year. A sleeper bound by woven shroud and chain, To corridors of comfortable, dull pain.
But somewhere, in the deep and silent ground, A tiny tremor, an insistent sound, Broke through the crust of silence, cold and hard— A single seed rejecting its safeguard. It didn’t ask for sunlight, or for rain, It simply pushed, through darkness, toward the plain.
A subtle shift, a breath the dreamer took, The spine uncurled, the heavy eyelids shook. The voice of slumber whispered, ”Go back down,” But memory surfaced of a forgotten crown, Of sky and motion, things that fly and sing, The potent promise that the day would bring.
The bonds dissolve, not shattered, but undone, As shadows flee before the rising sun. The dust of what was easy, what was known, Falls from the spirit, standing now alone, No longer sheltered by the things that cease, But vibrant with a terrifying peace.
And in that instant, fully wide-awake, The choice is made, the risk for freedom’s sake. To step into the brilliant, unforgiving light, And leave the long, familiar, heavy night. The heart now beats a rhythm new and bold: The story starts; the soul is re-enrolled.