Maela

Some are born with maps in hand,
Others wander without a plan.
One finds gold in the morning light,
one finds peace in the dead of night.
Don’t measure your miles by someone else’s pace;
We are all just finding our way to grace.

Different roads, different skies, different tears, different highs. What’s a detour for you and me might be someone else’s destiny. We don’t all bloom in the spring; some of us need the wintering. Different roads lead us home. You’re not lost, just finding your own.

She left at twenty with fire in her bones,
he stayed behind and built something from stones.
One runs fast, one takes it slow,
some seeds need frost before they grow.
So lay down the weight of comparison’s hand,
your story was never theirs to understand.
Here you will find what is rare.