They look at you and measure,
The weight of your worth pressed into cold scales.
Lines drawn, scarred deep in the soil of belonging,
And the air smells of judgment—sharp, metallic.
Voices rise, not to lift, but to pierce,
Splinters of blame scattered,
Caught in fragile skin like needles.
The world tightens its grip around the fragile corners of humanity.
A heavy silence drags behind the sharp-edged words—
A silence where understanding should have lived,
Where grace should have folded its wings,
But was cast away into the darkness of indifference.
Yet somewhere beneath the unyielding stones,
A seed stirs.
Soft, small—a pulse of something tender.
A rebellion that feels not like fire, but like water,
Rushing quietly to places unseen,
Softening the edges that cut too deeply.
Kindness moves.
It breathes.
Not loud or blinding, but steady and unbroken.
It presses warmth into the hollow spaces,
Filling the cracks left by judgment's cold hands.
Empathy finds the fragile and does not crush it,
It stretches out, like sunlight on trembling leaves,
Promising that the weight will not always be this heavy.
Walls crumble when touched by understanding’s quiet strength.
Eyes soften in the glow of shared humanity.
And somewhere, a voice whispers not in anger,
But in hope—
A prayer not of words, but of actions,
Of hearts that reach beyond division,
And hands that create, not destroy.
