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I have struggled through my PTSD for a few years now. It is a long recovery, and it is only now that I am starting to see my way through. I am finally healing and building something of my own. There is a way through, be patient and kind to yourself.
Just click Add to Cart and once you have purchased the item you will receive a link which will direct you to the site you can edit the text and background.
The world fell silent, scorched and torn,
where once the trees and rivers mourned.
Steel skeletons and shattered stone
stood sentinel to all we’d known.
Ash covered sky, the soil lay bare
no song, no wind, no answered prayer.
But from the cracks, a green thing grew,
a leaf, a stem, against the blue
that dared return, a fragile thread
of something living in the dead.
And I, survivor, scorched and scarred,
with calloused hands and spirit marred,
knelt down to touch this stubborn bloom,
this breath of hope amidst the gloom.
The past was dust, the future raw,
but in that sprout I saw a law:
that even ruin births its seed,
and even grief can give to need.
I tilled the ground with bleeding palms,
sang lullabies instead of psalms.
Built shelter not from wood or steel,
but from the will to dream and feel.
The world may never be the same,
no polished streets, no golden name.
But life returned in stubborn hues,
in roots and rain and sky-born blues.
In endings, I began again
a garden grown from ash and pain.
I have struggled through my PTSD for a few years now. It is a long recovery, and it is only now that I am starting to see my way through. I am finally healing and building something of my own. There is a way through, be patient and kind to yourself.
Just click Add to Cart and once you have purchased the item you will receive a link which will direct you to the site you can edit the text and background.
The world fell silent, scorched and torn,
where once the trees and rivers mourned.
Steel skeletons and shattered stone
stood sentinel to all we’d known.
Ash covered sky, the soil lay bare
no song, no wind, no answered prayer.
But from the cracks, a green thing grew,
a leaf, a stem, against the blue
that dared return, a fragile thread
of something living in the dead.
And I, survivor, scorched and scarred,
with calloused hands and spirit marred,
knelt down to touch this stubborn bloom,
this breath of hope amidst the gloom.
The past was dust, the future raw,
but in that sprout I saw a law:
that even ruin births its seed,
and even grief can give to need.
I tilled the ground with bleeding palms,
sang lullabies instead of psalms.
Built shelter not from wood or steel,
but from the will to dream and feel.
The world may never be the same,
no polished streets, no golden name.
But life returned in stubborn hues,
in roots and rain and sky-born blues.
In endings, I began again
a garden grown from ash and pain.