LATEST WORK

While others study spells or bargain for power, yours burns from within—untamed, ancient, alive. You are the storm in still air, the flicker before the flame, the pulse of magic made flesh. Your gift is not learned, It is remembered, awakened, inherited from stars or blood. You wield it not with control, but with instinct, emotion, and awe. You don’t channel magic. You are its echo.

While others fight in the open, you thrive in the unseen. You are the shadow between heartbeats, the silence before the strike. Every step is calculated, every word a blade, every glance a map of hidden truths. You move through the world not with arrogance, but with mastery—of locks and lies, of secrets and survival. You are not the storm. You are the stillness that undoes it. You don’t ask for trust. You earn it in whispers.

While others chase glory or gold, you move with purpose—quiet, watchful, resolute. You are shaped by the land and sharpened by solitude, a sentinel of the wild and a whisper in the dark. Your strength lies not in domination, but in precision, patience, and the bond you share with the world unseen. You are the pathfinder, the unseen blade, the echo of justice in forgotten places. You don’t seek recognition. You leave only impact.

A poem by Griffin Polley  Originally written 7/27/2020