I should begin the thing…

But there are flowers finding breath in the ice of Antarctica,

The world holds danger close to its chest,

My voice is a ghost in the silence,

I find it hard to enjoy the sense of tasting.

-

Perhaps the craft is a journey for souls whose stories are carved from a sterner grit than mine.

Will madness descend upon me if I let creation slip through my fingers?

It’s in the act,

a gentle whisper of peace finds me.

How can I scatter light upon the shadows without first striking a match?

I create because the ache for these things is a deep river within, untamable.

The fear that the work will dissolve into the abyss is my own crafted cage, reflected in the mirror I hold close as a shield.

I catch myself nursing the hope to ease the pain that clings to others,

As if I could draw it out, and cradle the hurt within my being.

bearing these unseen burdens with each dawn is a choice

- a testament to the resilient spirit that dwells within. It's a silent pledge to stand amidst the whirlwind of existence, a gentle yet firm declaration that despite the weight of the world, there's a steadfast resolve that pulses within, urging to not just endure, but to rise, to soar. 

In each whisper of hope, in every act of creation, there lies an opportunity to transcend the mundane, to touch the infinite, to weave a tapestry of empathy and understanding that may cradle the aching hearts, offering not just solace but a spark of the divine. 

As we dare to create, to touch lives with tender strokes of compassion, we do not just navigate through the storm, we become the beacon that shines through the tumult, a living testament to the indomitable spirit of creation that holds the promise of a dawn tender with the hues of unconditional humanity.