Poems from my pending book

Echoes of the Labyrinth

In the hush  
Before morning,  
I hear it—  
A small hum  
Threading the silence.
Hope speaks  
In the language of almost,  
Of maybe, 
 Of not‑yet.
I rise 
 Because it whispers.
  ****
I thought hope  
Was a lantern—  
Something I carried.
But it grew  
Like a pulse  
Beneath my ribs,  
A rhythm  
Older than fear.

Now it walks with me,  
Not ahead,  
Not behind—  
Becoming  
As I become.