Writers 
The clock had surrendered its ticking,
The calendar rusted with dust,
He walked through the ruins of choices
Where promises turned into rust.
He carried the weight of his shadows,
A prisoner bound by yesterday's thread,
Convinced that the road had grown narrow,
Convinced that his story was dead.
Yet fate, with a quiet persistence,
Unfolded a blank, untouched page,
And offered a moment of silence
To step from his self-built cage.
No trumpet announced the arrival,
No thunder shook loose from the sky;
Just a whisper of wind through the doorway,
A second chance passing him by.
What does one do when the daylight
Returns to a heart in the dark?
He did not rush out to conquer,
Nor try to ignite a great spark.
Instead, he leaned down in the stillness
To sweep up the glass on the floor,
And gathered the wood from his failures
To build a new frame for his door.
He spoke to his errors with kindness,
No longer a judge in his mind,
And learned how to walk without dragging
The anchors he’d left far behind.
He mended the roots in his garden,
And watered the soil where he stood,
Transforming the ash of his winter
To timber for something made good.
He chose not to run from the wreckage,
Nor pretend that the past wasn't real,
For a second chance isn't a magic trick,
It’s a hammer, a chisel, a wheel.
It asks for the sweat of a sculptor,
The patience to build from the ground,
To listen when silence is heavy,
Until a new rhythm is found.
So he stands at the edge of the morning,
No longer looking behind,
A man who was granted another start,
And the courage to leave doubt behind.
