rosesandsmiles

The world hums loud with brighter things—
neon dreams and gilded rings,
but somewhere soft, beneath the noise,
life whispers in its quiet joys.

A violin begins to cry,
not loud enough to split the sky,
but just enough to pull the thread
of something tender, left for dead.
Each note—unrushed, unbought, unclaimed—
a language we forgot we named.

The ocean breathes along the shore,
a salted hymn, forevermore.
Its scent—like memory, old and deep—
the kind the restless never keep.
We pass it by with hurried pace,
too busy chasing time to taste.

A mountain waits where silence grows,
where wind becomes the only prose.
The world below turns small and slight,
its chaos dimmed by distant height.
But few will climb, or stop to see
how small their storms were meant to be.

And night… oh night, so simply dressed,
with quiet shadows, soft at rest—
a book half-open, fingers curled,
a fragile pause from all the world.
No grand design, no grand display,
just peace that asks for you to stay.

Yet still we run, and still we chase
what cannot hold us in its grace.
We trade the soft for something loud,
the still for something that draws a crowd.

But life was never in the race—
it lingers in the in-between space…
in strings that sing, in salted air,
in quiet heights, in moments shared.

And maybe all we ache to find
has always been the simplest kind.