Written by: Eldrex Delos Reyes Bula
You plant a seed and walk away,
already dreaming of the tree.
But morning comes, and there you stand,
with yet another seed in hand.
You sketch a face, a line, an eye,
then leave the pencil where it lies.
A new blank page, a fresher start,
another arrow from your heart.
You love the opening of gates,
the spark that lights, the thrill that waits.
But halls of doors you've left ajar
will never tell you who you are.
A thousand rooms, a thousand keys,
a thousand whispered "one day, please."
But doors unclosed and never kept
are dreams that woke before they slept.
You start a fire, then chase the smoke,
you stitch a thread, then cut the yoke.
The cloth half-woven, left to fray,
while you begin another day.
The sun is not your enemy.
The moon is not your referee.
But half a bridge on either shore
will never carry you across.
So close a door. Lock one. Commit.
Let one room know your name in it.
A hundred doors left swinging wide
is not a home. It's just a ride.
The dream that breathes is not the start.
It's the one that stays and breaks your heart,
then asks you, tired, to remain,
and finish it in sun and rain.