At midnight’s edge, the ceiling stares,
The clock ticks loud in empty airs.
My mind, a river, swift and wide,
Carries the storms I try to hide.

The weight of dreams not yet begun,
The battles lost, the half-won run,
They gather here when all is still,
A mountain pressing down my will.

Yet in this dark, a spark takes flight,
A stubborn ember in the night.
It whispers soft through heavy skies:
“The dawn will come — so will you rise