In the silent womb of my own making,
I float, suspended, a tender bloom
Enveloped in embryonic waters, forsaking
The world's sharp edges, its clamor and gloom.
Here, in this quiet sea of solitude,
I feel the pulse of a distant heart—
A reminder that I am whole, though crude,
A being set apart, yet part of the art.

The taste of salt on my tongue,
A bitter whisper of all I've known,
Yet sweetened by the promise sung
In veins where life and light have grown.
The scent of stillness, a balm so rare,
Fills my lungs with a silent prayer—
To be held, to be seen, in the dark laid bare, ...