True North

I held to truth,  when the mirror bent my form,

when the world, in soft deceit, whispered, diminish.
I whispered back, never.

Through tempests veiled in silence,
I moved,  not untouched, but unyielding,
My flame cupped gently in weathered hands.

I pruned the noise, like ivy stealing light,
and fed the root, not of glory,
But of grace.

Each dawn, I chose the quiet war:
Discipline over ease, purpose over praise.
While others danced with echoes,
I walked with fire, tame to none, true to one.

Now, the bloom comes, not like thunder,
But like morning:
a hush, a warmth, a knowing.

I am not what the world shaped, 

I am what I chose to grow.

By Jo K.