For the Ones Who Remember

A poem for the misfits of soul

They told you,
you were too much.
Too loud with your silence,
too dangerous with your rage,
too wild with your knowing,
too deep for their shallows.

But you were never too much.
You were the right amount of holy,
for a world that forgot,
how to bow to ancient mystery.

You carry the fire,
that doesn’t just warm,
it burns illusions.
You speak in the language of dreams,
but they only hear static,
because they lost the signal long ago.

You didn’t come here to be normal.
You came to hold the broken myth,
to whisper to exiled children,
to breathe life into the stories,
that even time had buried.

You walk roads where maps fall apart,
cradling grief like a lantern,
because you know,
that light born of shadow,
is the only kind that doesn’t lie.

You are the priestess with ash on her face,
the wanderer with thunder in his chest,
the child who still remembers,
what the stars sang before we were born.

So this is for you,
not to fix you,
not to tame you,
but to honor the flame,
that refused to go out,
when the world grew cold.

May you find others,
who speak soul as their mother tongue.
May your strange be sanctuary.
May your ache become altar.

And may you know,
in the marrow of your myth,
that the path you walk alone,
is one the whole world,
secretly needs you to remember.