Patience—
The silent art of enduring,
A stillness within the storm,
Where the tempest rages unrelenting,
And unseen promises linger.
It is faith wrapped in shadows,
The quiet knowing that darkness cradles
The tender birth of light.
To see the thorn, sharp and unyielding,
Yet breathe the rose’s fragrance—
A paradox born of pain,
Beauty rising from wounds unseen,
A gift shaped by struggle.
Patience is the embrace of night’s weight,
When stars withhold their solace,
And yet, with closed eyes,
You trace the blush of dawn
Unfolding at the horizon’s edge.
It is wrestling with time’s relentless currents,
Guarding hope’s fragile seed,
Buried deep in waiting’s soil,
Trusting light and time’s alchemy
To summon roots, branches, and fruit.
Lovers attuned to eternity’s rhythm
Do not falter in patience.
They’ve seen the crescent moon,
Delicate and incomplete,
And know it as a whisper of promise:
Time, the master sculptor,
Carves fullness from fragments,
Perfection from imperfection.
Patience—
A luminous thread
That binds the seen to the unseen,
The now to the yet-to-come.
It murmurs that waiting
Is the prelude to wonder,
A testament to divine artistry.
Patience is not inaction,
But the quiet labor of trust,
The readiness for light
That emerges only
When its season is ripe.
MyKoul