They say the stillness is a gift,
a balm for weary hands and hearts—
but what of days that drift and drift
with no sharp edges, no bold starts?
The air too calm, the sky too blue,
the silence thick as honey glaze.
Even the birds seem quiet too,
lost in some endless yawn of days.
No cries for change, no cause to rise,
no clash of minds, no restless storm.
The fire dies behind the eyes
when nothin...