In Between the Land of Dead and Living

I walk a narrow road,
not earth, not sky,
but the quiet space where shadows
learn the shape of light.

I want the climb,
the love, the fire,
the sweet illusion of forever,
yet I know each flame
is only smoke in memory’s lungs.

The world applauds masks,
but I am weary of costumes.
I crave the small, secret joys,
the ones that ask for nothing
but my own pulse,
my own breath.

Here, in the in-between,
I do not rise for monuments,
nor bend for applause.
I bloom for myself,
a tree with roots in silence,
leaves that fall unseen.

If the dead wait behind me
and the living call ahead,
I remain here,
not lost,
just choosing
to be.