No map lies beneath your feet
only the hush of untrodden earth,
the whisper of brambles daring you
to brush past what others feared.
You carry the sun in your chest,
flint-struck moments,
sparking against doubt
until fire becomes forward.
The world offered blueprints.
You answered with brushstrokes
wild, bold,
uncaring of symmetry.
Each step makes music,
not of footsteps,
but of becoming.
So go
where no shoe has worn down moss,
where horizons forget your name
because it is yet to be written.