The quiet door

My mind is a river that flows through the night, It carries no stars—just questions and fright. The moon may rise, but I stay awake, My thoughts are seeds I cannot take. They grow too quickly, then fade away, Like soft white sand the moonlight sways. They chase the wind, they lose their track, And leave my heart a little cracked. A voice inside me speaks nonstop, It climbs the hills that silence tops. But even noise can show the way— Storms too must turn, and not just stay. I asked the trees, “Do you not fear?” They said, “We bend when storms come near.” I asked the sky, “Why do you cry?” It smiled at me with its blue reply. There is a place beneath all sound, Where fire rests upon the ground. A stillness waits, beyond the touch, For those who question life too much. So let me breathe with gentler pace, Not scared of death, nor life's long race. For peace is not a wall or shore— It lives behind a quiet door. And if my thoughts forget their way, I'll sit with clouds and let them stay. For even chaos kneels to grace, And every storm finds back its place.