burning silence

There was a moment—
the light cut through me,
sharp as frost carving shadows,
cold enough to freeze time.
It stripped me bare,
peeling back the edges of my thoughts,
exposing hollow places
I’d long ignored.
I wanted to turn away,
but the light held me still,
unyielding, as if it knew
I couldn’t escape myself.

Then came the fire,
its heat crawling into my chest,
lighting the corners I’d kept hidden.
It wasn’t anger—
it was the ache of truths too heavy to hold,
memories rising like smoke,
their weight pressing into my silence.
I thought I could endure it,
but it unraveled me,
and I let it,
because maybe surrender
was the only way to feel whole again.

Not the kind to destroy,
but to leave its mark behind—
a scar, a searing truth
you carry long after it fades.

What is left when the light recedes?
A memory, fleeting as the blur of motion,
and the echo of warmth
that lingers where clarity once stood.
Between blurs and firelight,
I find a world unraveling—
a fleeting pause,
a moment caught in its own burning silence.

###

Inspired by these two pictures I took last Thursday, early in the morning.