I woke up one morning,
my soul draped in leaden silence,
a darkness that clung like a second skin.
In the shadowed corners of my mind,
I saw an ember—a single spark,
buried beneath layers of numbness,
a fragile glimmer amid the wreckage.
This ember, so small,
held the ghost of warmth,
a memory of a fire long faded.
It was not a blaze,
just a flicker in the void,
a pulse that whispered softly,
“You are not alone.”
I held that ember close,
feeling its tender heat against my fingertips,
like a secret that refused to die.
It burned against the cold,
against the vast expanse of grey,
and though its light was faint,
it was mine, persistent.
Each day, I tended to it,
feeding it with the barest threads of hope,
with moments of quiet belief.
I wrapped it in gentle care,
draped it in the soft fabric of patience.
It was a delicate flame,
but it was a start,
a beginning I could cling to.
I watched as the ember grew,
a slow, deliberate dance
in the stillness of my heart.
It warmed the edges of my world,
a hint of light against the unending dark.
The shadows, once overwhelming,
began to recede,
fleeing from the steady glow.
It was not sudden, this change,
but a gradual thaw,
a slow easing of the chill.
Each flicker of the ember
was a promise,
a reminder that beneath the surface,
something was stirring,
something was alive.
The ember spoke in whispers,
its light painting faint trails
across the canvas of my days.
It told tales of what could be,
of warmth that might return,
of a fire that could rekindle.
It was a soft revolution,
a quiet reclaiming of myself.
I saw the ember’s glow
in the small victories,
in the moments when the darkness lifted,
if only for an instant.
It was in the first smile
that felt real,
in the laughter that came unbidden,
in the dawn that broke
through the endless night.
The ember began to ignite,
a spark transforming into a flame,
warming the cold corners of my soul.
It was a gradual blaze,
each flicker a testament
to the strength I had forgotten,
to the hope I had nearly lost.
In this fire, I found comfort,
a refuge from the storm.
It was a flame that spoke
of resilience,
of the power of even the smallest light
to chase away the dark.
The ember was no longer alone,
but a beacon,
guiding me toward the day.
The path was still shadowed,
but now, I walked in the warmth
of my own rekindled spirit.
The ember had become a fire,
a steady light against the gloom,
a promise that even the smallest spark
could grow into something
beautiful, enduring.
And so, I carried this flame,
its light a testament
to the journey from despair
to hope.
It burned brightly now,
a symbol of the strength found
in the smallest ember,
a light that grew
in the darkest hours.
