It’s not a whisper inside but a time.

Falling to warriors a thousand ways.

Feels the stares of many , as they define.

A vanquished hero, crumbling, is portrayed.

A blossoming iris in a soul hates

to be dulled by these murmuring scorns.

But, a mustard seed can not grow in faith,

without the thriving of a thousand thorns.

When these hands tremble at shattered dreams,

every second the clay’s not standing faultless,

in my, billion year old stardust gleams.

Then I, learning myself, become dauntless.

What identifies me is how I rise.

The cosmos will hold my dreams, not the skies....