Tag: MarkVanJaarsveld

Patterns of Light

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We are but patterns of light

[Verse I]

Before I had a name to carry,
before the mirror learned my face,
I was a pulse beneath the silence,
a borrowed breath, a gathering shape.

A thousand lives of dust and water
converged to kindle in my eyes.
For one brief turning of the heavens,
the dark became aware of light.

[Pre-Chorus]

And every moment leaves an echo,
every ending leaves a trace.
Nothing passes without touching
what will rise to take its place.

[Chorus]

We are but patterns of light
  unfolding in time —
    fragile, recursive,
    drawn by unseen design.

We flare for a moment,
then fade from the sky,
yet something keeps turning
when we leave the light behind.

[Verse II]

Then you appeared within my orbit,
not as fate announced in flame,
but quietly, as dawn enters
through a window without a name.

And all the lines that made me certain
bent around the warmth of you.
The pattern did not break between us —
it widened into something new.

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This Poisoned World

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The Poisoned World

Every breath is borrowed now,..

The Poisoned World

[Verse 1]
A sky burns low in embered haze,
poisoned winds move through the plains.
Once-mighty towers, fractured bone,
a graveyard of steel where no birds roam.

The river crawls like rusted blood,
dragging oil through fields of mud.
Empty windows watch the road,
holding shadows of the lives they knew.

[Pre-Chorus]
We taste the metal on our tongues,
hear the warning sirens hum.
Every breath is borrowed now,
but we are breathing somehow.

[Chorus]
In this poisoned world, we remain,
walking through the fire and rain.
It took our homes, it scarred our names,
but it has not taken everything.

When the blackened heavens fall,
we will answer when they call.
This poisoned world may take its toll,
but it will never take us whole.

[Verse 2]
We learned to sleep beneath the ground,
to speak in whispers, make no sound.
We counted water, shared the flame,
and taught the children every name.

We carried photographs and seeds,
a book of songs, a bag of dreams.
The smallest things became our gold,
a hand to hold against the cold.

The earth remembers every wound, every buried drum of poison underground. Every forest stripped, every ocean sold, every promise broken for another piece of gold. But we remember something more, the hands that opened every door. The ones who stayed, the ones who shared, the ones who proved that someone cared. We are not innocent. We are not clean. We are the children of the killing machine. The earth remembers every mark we left, every drill, every spill, every debt. But we can choose what rises next. We can become more than what we left.
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