The Roots That Twist Around His Soul

The Roots That Twist Around His Soul

The roots he carries,

are not like mine,

they twist in ways,

the night remembers.

They curl around,

the core of him,

with heavy hands,

that never sleep.

There is a hush,

beneath his breath,

a quiet ache,

he never names.

I feel it rise,

when he grows still,

as if the dark,

leans close to him.

These roots hold scars,

from older storms,

from broken rooms,

and borrowed pain.

They twist around,

his fragile hope,

pulling tight,

when he wants light.

Yet still he climbs,

branch after branch,

with trembling strength,

that feels like truth.

He moves through nights,

that cling to him,

and still he finds,

a way to reach.

I watch him breathe,

against that weight,

and every breath,

becomes a win.

For even roots,

that twist so deep,

cannot control,

the fire in him.

His branches rise,

beyond their grip,

seeking air,

he thought was gone.

And I stand near,

to hold his climb,

to be the calm,

he leans upon.

The roots may twist,

around his soul,

but they will not,

decide his fate.

He carries them,

yet walks ahead,

growing past,

what tried to hold him.