We Step Softly Into The Dawn Of Ourselves

We step softly into the dawn of ourselves,
where shadows of yesterday linger just long enough
to cast light upon our waking feet.

The road hums with the quiet music of becoming—
each stone a lesson, each breeze a promise
whispering through the hollows of the heart.
The horizon stretches, woven with gold threads of longing,
while the sky, unburdened, unfurls like an untouched page.

Here, regret stands not as a wall but a doorway,
framed by the tender breath of now.
Worry, a pale bird, perches beside us,
soft in its warnings, gentle in its flight.

And the present—ah, the present—
folds itself around us like silk,
delicate yet unyielding in its truth:
You are here, and this is enough.

The winds murmur secrets beneath the skin of the world,
and we lean closer, as if drawn by the rustling of eternity.
Light curves along the rim of morning,
and leaves murmur their hymn against the glass—
a soft percussion, reminding us to look deeper.

Gratitude blooms unnoticed at first,
like wild violets between forgotten stones,
until we find ourselves kneeling, hands open,
gathering beauty in small handfuls,
marveling at the wildness that was always near,
always waiting, just beneath the surface.

MyKoul