still pond of self-possession. still pond of self-possession" describes a state of profound inner calm, emotional stability, and self-control, often visualized as a serene, undisturbed body of water. It represents the ability to maintain composure, confidence, and awareness even when facing chaos, stress, or external pressures. And it seems y'all are having That offended feeling, Your accusations It gathers weight, this grievance,(our world) like waterlogged wool,( drained, exhausted) heavy on the shoulders of the accused. We watch the slow calibration, the careful turning of others, a quiet, almost polite dismantling of another's rooted place. Agreements bloom in the shadow, small, brittle flowers of shared disapproval, watered by the narrative spun thin. To erase the echo of their being, to scrub the map clean of that singular, stubborn presence. Not with a shout, but a persistent, low hum of doubt, a polite suggestion that perhaps the foundation was always shifting. Abidence questioned, (never) the quiet trust in one's own ground, the faith in the sun rising just where you last saw it. It flickers, this inner compass, when the outside insists the North Pole has relocated itself entirely. The fact of it, the simple, hard geometry of existence, becomes pliable clay in skilled hands. What is it, really? The question hangs, an uninvited guest, when the focus shifts, when the spotlight is aimed everywhere but here. And when your attention drifts, a moment of looking away, perhaps to mend a broken latch or simply breathe, that is the aperture they find. The space between the inhale and the exhale. I can and may and say, a small reclaiming, a whisper against the roaring consensus. Take heed, listen closely now, to the untamed rhythm beneath the polished floor. I believe you at in at no end, a desperate anchor cast into a churning sea. A belief that remains, solid, even as the current tries to sweep it clean. So ponder on, wander through the maze of whispered histories and rewritten truths. Question the mirror that shows a distorted face. But do not say it back, not to them. Do not hand them the ammunition of your own defense in their courtroom. What has been said, let it be dust. These words you were read, the story told by those who profit from the fracture, and those you wrote in haste, in the defensive heat of the moment. What was bleed, the raw essence poured out onto the page, the involuntary truth that slips through the cracks when the armor buckles. That remains the only honest measure. What was bled onto that part, that effort of expression, is now yours to hold, to weigh against the tension, and perhaps, finally, to understand. Whos plan was it to know ready As all knew,where am I we now stan The people On no question is I'm here Are you where No question Solid ground stood Refused to differ Loyalty has shown to much death ,so I sit here

I'm not your blame