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 nothing breaks the perfect form.

A meadow wide, untouched by tread,

is lovely—till it makes you ache.

For peace, when overfed and spread,

can blur the line 'tween dream and wake.

Give me the rustle, not the hush—

a heartbeat’s race, a sudden call.

Too much peace, and all turns mush—

no mountains left, no fear to fall.

So let me crave the sweet unrest,

the yearning that disturbs the soul.

In tension, I have felt my best—

it’s noise that shapes the silent whole.