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The curtain lifts,

a reluctant tear in the heavy, soul

that was the night.

Fog, thick as old sorrow,

(Givzah) The new you

clings to the edges of the world.

We once knew.

And with it, a tremor inside,

a refusal of abandonedment

unbidden, unearned maybe,

but undeniably present: Hope. Not

And was in truth was ever not

It pushes against the lingering chill,

Never ,the numbness was blind wandering

In own path of the memory of the long,

the relentless, unseen storm

that they called their own passage.

For it kept the lost

enduring the own storm,

the internal raging,

the self-inflicted weather,

still caught, undeniably,

within the very mist they breathed. Now shortened

Unknowing agents in their own confusion,

blind to the turning of their own stone

of the unseen wall

Theis brought a thought,

Of a time when it was Good.

Reminence,it caught me in reality

What goodness truly was

not the reflection

they’d been forced

to inhabit ,

I have .me

packed up in the minds of you and accumulate lie upon lies by any means no truth about what is against the humanities any well being,, loyalty I'm here today and some destroy for their own insecurities now seems to shift, to no longer matter for the selfish strain of its holding.

a heavy weight now to carry,

showing itself , know it is the offense your taking and the perfection you speak about theirs no comparison when sum are still here ,their in any matter , but know their ,where's the battle within the self

The truth in which it's stood,

Doesn't matter to whomever is by yourside and know this ,why not to you too

We"ll see

A burden disguised as devotion.

To see clearly now,

even through this thinning veil,

is to witness the taint,

the subtle smear of blood on every surface,

the way the light itself seems bruised.

Just by The inner voice, once a clarion call,

the certainty of rightness,

that iron core of righteousness,

it has gone quiet.

Muffled.

A forced stillness descends,

a space between breaths where the real question hangs,

heavy and unavoidable:

To be, or not to be

in this half-light, half-truth?

Control has dissolved,

seeped away into the damp earth.

They are not masters of this immediate moment,

bound by threads they cannot trace,

a tapestry woven by hands

Deceit, a fine, sticky spider silk,

manipulation, the silent tugging at the edges of their will. They know they must move.

Not crashing through the fog,

but delicately, tracing the invisible lines of the snare. Finding the loose knot,

the frayed edge of the web.

The light is small, and dimming

For all the conversations that are spoken

And not questioned,just plotted on

but it illuminates the path forward,

not out of the fog entirely,

but toward the knowledge

of where the exit might lie hidden. The

deliberate search

breaking dawn.

It's me,

My means is in not hatred possibly by reacting of frustration and irritation but as an individual,my soul is the goodness of above,

deuterated