You weren’t sent here empty-handed,
but might have forgotten the thread.
It lies tucked deep beneath your grief,
in the part where the world had fled.
 
Purpose is not a wall to climb,
nor a grand title etched in stone—
it is the rhythm held within
for when you feel most fully known.
 
It is not always loud or bright—
it looks like kindness no one sees.
It speaks up for the ones unheard,
or plants a hope like blooming trees.
 
The signs live in what stirs your heart,
what brings you peace, what feels most true.
Your tears and longings are not random—
they’re arrows pointing back to you.
 
So trust the path, even in fog—
walk anyway, even unsure.
It will lead you where you should be.
You hold the thread—it’s still secure.