Roots bruised and trunk carved by silent storms,

the tree rises—not in triumph, but torment—

its branches curling like questions,

each one aching with the weight of choice unmade.

And yet, by dusk, the bending became form—

not by clarity, but by consequence.

Each hesitant reach, each pause,

etched into bark as if chosen.

For time does not wait for certainty,

and even silence leaves a scar.

So stands the tree: whole in shape, fractured in spirit.

A monument to motion without direction,

to the ache of becoming when the path is unclear.

It did not know where to grow—

only that it must.

https://www.echoesinthecurrent.blog