Memory

No soul was shaped to stay the same,

we only lend ourselves a name.

The rest is carried, slow and deep,

by things we never get to keep.

The wind has never feared the sea,

nor asked what comes of memory.

It only moves from breath to breath,

untroubled by the weight of death.

Perhaps the truth was never found,

but heard beneath the smallest sound.

A stillness older than our voice,

where even loss becomes a choice.

...And if forever means to be,

not held by time, but simply free,

then every moment, left alone,

has always been the endless whole