🧙‍♂️The Poem of Presence🧙‍♂️

In the quiet, I find myself,

a whisper beyond the noise,

a rhythm unbroken, soft as breath,

untangling the world’s voice.

Salt and cinnamon in my hands,

a ritual, a sacred tool.

Not for magic, but for meaning—

a moment to realign, to rule.

I cleanse my spirit, I still my mind,

an anchor in the storm,

no rushing thoughts, no wild tides,

just a soul in its purest form.

To be present is to dissolve time,

to stand apart, yet whole,

to observe without the rush of life,

a mirror reflecting the soul.

Eyes closed, yet I see so clear,

ears open to the hum of now,

the world, no longer blurred by fear,

just is—and I allow.

For a moment, or a minute, or five,

I am nothing and everything true.

A fleeting touch of eternity’s light,

a self both ancient and new.

So I return to these sacred ways,

a practice to keep me aligned.

Each act, a thread in the tapestry

that binds me to my higher mind.