Beneath Closed Lids

The world is heavy,

and she has carried it longer than most—

its storms etched into her skin,

its silence pressed into the folds of her brow.

With eyes closed,

she leans into memory,

where shadows blur into light

and the names of the gone

rise like whispers on the wind.

It is not sleep,

but surrender—

a moment to unclench her fists

from the decades they have held,

a moment to breathe

without the weight of being seen.

In the hush behind her lids,

there is grief, yes,

but also gratitude—

the quiet relief

of someone who has endured,

who has outlasted the fire,

and now simply stands,

weathered but unbroken,

letting time pass gently

through her bones.