They say a man’s white hair is the mark of wisdom,
But what is wisdom to a child frozen in time?
Trapped in the echo of his father’s words
sharp as swords, severing the roots meant to grow.
Now he walks in an old man’s frail garment,
but the boy within will not let him be.
So he hides beneath the cloak of the aged,
while his soul aches for freedom.
If only the boy would loosen his grip.
If only he could break free.
He gathers himself
pulls, screams, pushes through
but at every door, the boy stands in the way.
Oh, wounded soul,
Who will save him?
Who will deliver him from himself?
He stands at the threshold, weary yet resolute.
One last time, he faces the boy
the keeper of old wounds, the guardian of his chains.
With a breath deep as the years behind him,
he reaches out, not to fight, but to embrace.
The boy trembles, then fades like mist in the morning sun.
And at last, the man steps forward, whole, free, reborn.
Look closely.
Do you recognize him?
He is you.
