It Is Not Too Late

You have held so much that your fingers grew tired,
From the burden of shadows, of silence, of faces.
You have been silent so long, until your voice scattered
Into a breath that moans, not daring to scream.

And tears do not flow – you no longer know how to weep,
And wounds do not ache – it does not mean you have healed.
You have simply learned to grow into your scars,
To tame the shadow, and to love the night.

But know… it is not too late, it is not shameful to learn.
It is no weakness to fall in dreams,
It is no shame to seek a touch,
If the world is cold and dead in your hands.