Between Bruises & Blooms

Everyone sleeps.

Except me.

The babies
finally dream.

The house
finally exhales.

The candle
burns lower.

My pen
burns brighter.

The Hermit
doesn’t fear loneliness.

He knows

some roads
can only be walked

with a notebook
in one hand

and silence
in the other.

Every poem
is another lantern.

Every page
another mile
toward home.