Antlers of Solitude
Alone he walks the twilight shore,
No echo waits, no praise, no lore.
Yet every step, so firm, so true,
Is carved from storms that he’s lived through.
No herd to follow, path unclear,
But still he moves, despite the fear.
His strength is not in numbers told,
But in the silence he can hold.
The dusk may weigh like winter’s stone,
But he has made the dark his own.
With antlers high, he cuts the mist,
A soul who dared—alone—exist.
