Shaped my soul to hold what the world can't carry,
A fortress of whispers, built tight, not airy.
Folded inward, a cocoon in the still,
Wrapped in silence, chasing the chill.
 
Even silence seeks a path to roam,
Roots deep under, the grid hums home.
Breath of the ancient, patient and slow,
Cracks in the edge where the echoes grow.
 
Not all that fractures is meant to break,
Leaned on the boundary, the seams did shake.
Soft where the edge once felt so stern,
Every split taught the stone to yearn.
Carved in the fault lines, wisdom turns,
Ashes to ink as the story burns.
 
Spoken to shadows, the words they know,
A language of absence, a quiet glow.
Pulled by the weight of the unseen tide,
The cracks aren't flaws—they're where I reside.
 
Even silence seeks a path to roam,
Roots deep under, the grid hums home.
Breath of the ancient, patient and slow,
Cracks in the edge where the echoes grow.
 
Where the echoes grow, I make my nest,
Soft in the hollow, I find my rest.
Not all that's broken is left to fall,
The cracks are a doorway—through them, I crawl.