Where pain took root and shadows seemed to last,
A silent seed reached upward through the night,
Drawn not by fear, but by a distant light.
The mud beneath did not define its name,
Nor steal its softness, nor extinguish its flame.
Each scar became a lesson, not a chain,
Each tear a river nourishing the rain.
It rose through depths that sought to pull it down,
Yet surfaced still, untouched within its crown.
Not because the storm was small or kind,
But because its strength was anchored deep inside.
And there it blooms for all the world to see.
A symbol of what wounded hearts can be.
For beauty is not born where life is pure.
It blooms where souls have learned to still endure.
"From dark mud, I rise.
Not untouched, but unbroken."
- Merry -
