The Still Center of the Storm

We stand in the whirlwind of days that never pause,

Spun by winds of want, of worry, of cause.

Voices clamor, clocks tick like accusations,

Yet somewhere inside, untouched by the motion,

A single point refuses to spin.

It is not absence. It is not escape.

It is the eye that sees the storm without hate.

The place where every rushing current arrives

And finds, for the first time, a place to rest its knives.

We search for peace in distant mountains or seas,

In future plans or forgotten memories.

But the center is closer than our own breath —

A hush between heartbeats, a room beneath death.

Here, the loud becomes soft, the heavy grows light.

Regret and longing lay down their endless fight.

The past dissolves like mist at morning’s edge;

The future bows, no longer a pledge.

Only this moment remains, vast and clear,

A cathedral of silence with no walls to fear.

Every joy that ever was, every wound that still sings,

Gathers here without asking for anything.

So step into the storm and walk straight through its roar.

Do not resist. Do not keep score.

Find the motionless heart that beats in your chest —

The still center that turns the world at its best.

This is the secret the wise have always known:

The storm is not enemy. The storm is the throne.

And you are not the one being tossed or with eyes wide —

You are the quiet that leaves the whole world aside.