Sanctuary
I built my peace with quiet hands
from what was worn and torn,
from chaos and the ache of time,
from breath spent on odds long lost.
I laid it, brick by patient brick,
with mortar ground by solitude.
The world still knocks—loud, careless—
but I have learned to tend this land,
to let only stillness take root.
They come with polished, paper smiles,
with promises made of sweet smoke,
but I have walked through fire
and know what burns to ash,
and what is merely haze.
Do not bring your noise to my calm.
I neither wait at the window,
nor yearn to be found.
A still pond—no pebble can disturb—
this is my sanctuary.
If you enter, step softly:
hands empty, eyes awake.
Come not to claim my peace,
but to sit beside it
and leave it whole.
JI
11-05-2025















