Through the Fog

There are mornings I wake in gray,

where time feels heavy, words decay.

The mirror shows a fading hue,

a stranger’s face I almost knew.

My thoughts, like whispers in the rain,

repeat old songs of loss and pain.

Yet somewhere soft, beneath the ache,

a fragile will begins to wake.

It hums: “You’re tired, but still you breathe.

The sun still waits behind the leaves.”

And though the fog won’t lift today,

I trust it will — in its own way.

So I will walk, though slow, though small,

and let the light forgive it all.