344 Grateful for ‘the bottom’ via /r/gratitude

Something has cracked — not me, not quite,
It's more like stair boards in the night,
That hush beneath a weight long kept
In all the echoes of my life that wept.

I’ve dwelled below the frostline deep,
Where cellar things are put to sleep —
The jars of grief, well-sealed, preserved,
The soured dreams I once deserved.

A spider spins outside my window,
Her silver thoughts lost in shadows.
We whisper truths too sharp to say,
And count the cracks in our dismay.

The air is harsh with all I know —
Regrets like roots still learn to grow.
I light no lamp. I close no door.
The dark is mine, and I want more.

I own this cold. I chose this grave,
And still, I rise from where I cave.
The dust is thick with former names,
The soot of love, the ash of flames.

Yet now and then — a slit of gold
Breaks through a board too tired to hold.
Not warmth, but warning: light persists.
It does not ask. It only exists.

Without the dark, no flame is bright.
I'll start again and walk with the light.
It gives me strength to pick up the pace,
But I’ll walk — not run — and walk with grace.