The Weight of our Hands

We are not always the shattered glass,
not only the echoes of a breaking past.
Sometimes the cracks were drawn by choice,
a whisper silenced, a louder voice.

The world can wound, it leaves its mark,
but often we strike our own kindling spark.
We carve the roads with trembling feet,
then curse the stones beneath our seat.

It is easier, perhaps, to wear the chain,
to say, “The world has dealt me pain.”
But mirrors reveal what we fear to see:
the fate we sealed was forged by we.

Not victims always, nor heroes true,
but architects of what we undo.
Each choice, a chisel; each word, a blade
in shadow and light, our paths are made.

So, claim the scars, and claim the hand
that drew the circle in the sand.
For even when storms are not our blame,
we built the house that bears our name.