There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
The river ran with a restless heart,
Carrying stories from mountain stone.
It knew the curves of valleys well,
And sang in a voice it called its own.
The sea waited, wide and calm,
A breathing blue with salted skin.
It spoke in tides and moonlit pulls,
Inviting all the waters in.
But the ocean roared with deeper drums,
Ancient, vast, too large to plead.
It did not ask the river’s will,
It claimed all endings as its creed.
The river fought with foaming cries,
Clinging to banks it used to know.
“I have a name, a path, a past—
I am not ready to let go.”
The sea softened the river’s rage,
Mixed its sweet with salted tears.
Promised rest, not erasure,
A merging calm beyond its fears.
Yet the ocean opened its endless mouth,
Where borders blur, and currents twist.
There, the river lost its edges,
And became what it resisted.
No battle left a wound or scar,
No victor stood upon the sand.
Only a quiet transformation,
Where water learns to understand.
For every river meets this fate:
To travel far, then disappear.
Swallowed not by cruelty or war,
But by something vast, sincere, and near.
And in that conflict without sound,
Where endings look like rebirth’s face,
The river dies to be everywhere—
A small life claimed by endless space. 🌊
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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