The Architect
LITERARI
Over the hills where the skies were grey,
I slammed a blue crayon on the canvas—
not softly, but pressed so hard
as if to remind the heavens
of the kindness it had let slip away.
The world went silent. Solitude.
But the paper listened.
Even the wind brushed past
to confirm the quiet
and in that hush,
the crayon’s scratch became a sound.
Along the clouds, I drew a sun—
a sun that smiled despite the rain,
not bright, but still there—
a smudge of yellow that refused to fade.
I didn’t fix it.
Some things are meant to remain unfinished,
half-done, but still trying.
The colors kept my hands from shaking,
the motion kept the silence from growing,
with small crayons shading dark thoughts,
and paper listening to every rip and tear.
And it wasn’t much, but it was honest.
Maybe we don’t draw to mend the world,
but to steady the darkness inside us.
In time, a landscape appeared—
a place where hope hums softly, between the lines.
I learned that I don’t need the universe to conspire;
sometimes it’s enough to know that something hears me.
I am the architect of my own happiness,
still placing colors where they belong,
still tracing light into corners,
still crafting hope, beneath my own imperfect blue skies.