In the depths of his despair,
Veiled by the dark blanket,
He was oblivious to the beauty,
Of blooming flowers in the meadow.
The sun and moon, they watched,
Wondering why he hid his heart,
Why he concealed his broken wings,
And every little scar he bore.
Silently observing, the moon approached,
Its light casting a gentle glow.
"Knife or words?" it softly inquired,
Seeking to understand his pain.
And with every tear he shed,
His choice became clear,
For the pain within him spoke,
And cast its vote for words.
The agony, like a fishbone lodged,
Stuck in the depths of his throat.
To swallow or let it linger,
He knew he risked losing his spirit.
No escape seemed possible,
Days passed like a living corpse,
But the moon, with its dents and scars,
Shone high and bright each night.
Guiding the lost souls, it persevered,
Ruling the vast expanse of the sky.
And gradually, the heavy blanket lifted,
Revealing a gentle breeze of hope.
Transformed into a star, he soared,
Bright and high above the abyss,
No longer bound by darkness,
But embracing his newfound light.
I'm 19 y/o Student, a new writer, and an introvert, who lives in Pakistan.
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