The sounds ofthought

The mirror reflects, a quiet question lingersin the hollow of the day's tired light.
How art thou now? A whisper, not a shout,
bouncing off the polished surfacesof what I thought I built.

No grand spire of pride stands tall,
no monument erected to my own cleverness.
Just the slow, steady accumulationof small breaths taken,
the quiet hum of intuition's true north,
a pull towards a gentle grace,
a color in the common run of man.

Is this simply the rhythm society dictates?
The expected dance of becoming,
the narrative woven tight by others' hands?
Or does this knowing, this sense of being,
arise from deeper, sunless soil?

Iwatch them move, these figures of assurance,
wielding borrowed authority,
the titles clutched tight,
justifying their ascent with sharp, bright words.
They seek the nod, the public stamp,
feeding the endless appetite of self.
Their disapproval stings, a brief, cold wind,
but my navigation is not charted by their storms.

The sudden silence, the abrupt halt—
a decade dissolved like sugar in hot rain.
No explanation offered, just the heavy curtaindrawn across the stage. Time has passed, they say,
though the words themselves were never spoken aloud.

Adecade measured now, not in growth, but in edges sharpened,
in gains tallied, in the narrow focus of one's own harvest.
Aselfishness, perhaps unintentional,
a deep dive into the self that left the shore unseen.

And the thank yous? The acknowledgment of light shared?
They remain trapped behind the teeth,
unspoken architecture of the heart.
Gratitude, that necessary turning toward the giver,
is a silent language here, unheard.

How art thou?
Still learning the cadence,
still polishing the simple mirror,
hoping the reflection sees beyond the frantic scramble,
to the quiet, unbuilt truth beneath.
Aslow unfolding, perhaps,
a design still being sketched,
line by imperfect line.

rap, trap808