It wasn’t real, that connection you held up like something rare. It was only your restless emptiness reaching outward, never inward where truth lived. There was something in you, a rare kind of wrongness, not loud, but steady, growing in the quiet corners You refused to clean. Your habits sank deep, roots of neglect and excuse, feeding on your comfort, tightening around any chance of becoming better. Inside your chest, something lingered, not wounded, but slowly rotting from everything you chose not to face. Your words carried weight, but not wisdom, dirty with judgment, falling on others as if they owed you effort You would never give yourself. You dreamed wildly, expected greatly, Yet moved nowhere. Laziness sat in you like spring, fresh, alive, growing stronger each day You chose not to change. And so you became a tree, Not shaped by storms, but by stillness. Not broken, but unused. A tree that stands alone, roots deep in wasted time, branches stretched with empty wants, leaves gree...
The rain arrives like whispered grace,
A gentle hymn from sky to ground.
It blesses dust with living touch,
Where silence once was all around.
Leaves lift their faces to the fall,
Emerald veins begin to shine.
Each droplet writes a promise soft
Along the edges of the vine.
Roots awaken deep below,
Drinking hope in quiet trust.
Seeds remember who they are,
And rise from darkness, clay, and dust.
The earth exhales, relieved, renewed,
Cracked soil healed by silver streams.
Rain stitches life into the land,
Mending hunger’s broken seams.
For farmers, rain is more than water,
It is tomorrow’s bread and prayer.
It decides the weight of the harvest,
The difference between despair and care.
They watch the sky with folded hands,
Reading clouds like sacred text.
Each rainfall answers patient work,
And shapes what seasons offer next.
Where rain falls true, the world stands strong—
Green speaks louder than decay.
A blessing poured without condition,
Teaching life how to stay.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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