I walked on

long after life had taken

all it had once placed in my hands.

What I held dissolved quietly

into memory and distance.

What I called mine

left without farewell.

Still, my feet knew the way.

I did not ask the road for mercy.

I did not ask it to end.

I asked only this

that I may not cease.

There were nights

when silence pressed too close,

when the heart folded inward

under the weight of its own ache.

I fell,

more times than I can name.

And each time

the earth received me

without judgment.

I wept,

not to be heard,

but to empty what could not be carried.

And then

I rose.

Not stronger,

not unbroken,

but unwilling to remain where I had fallen.

The path stretched on

long, winding, indifferent.

Its thorns did not warn,

its depths did not reveal themselves.

Still, I walked.

For even as all was taken,

something within me remained untouched.

Not what I possessed,

not what I was given,

but what I am.

And that

I did not lose.

So I walk still.

Not because the road is gentle,

nor because the end is certain,

but because somewhere,

beyond what I cannot yet see,

there is a light.

And I have chosen

to walk toward it.