A smile can bloom from the same soil
where sorrow buried its seed.
Joy lifts like sunlight on the river,
yet shadows ride beneath the reeds.
Love is a fire with gentle hands—
it warms, it heals, it binds.
But touch too close, the flame will bite,
and leave its marks behind.
Anger rises fierce and raw,
a storm that clears the air.
It breaks apart the stifled hush,
yet scorches what was fair.
Hope is fragile, feather-light,
a lantern in the night.
It guides the lost to carry on,
or blinds with too much light.
Every feeling wears two cloaks,
woven in the same thread’s spin:
to hurt, to heal, to break, to mend—
the two sides folded in.
Therapy Bits 
Leave a reply to Esther Chilton Cancel reply