I spoke to the sky
not expecting an answer,
only silence wrapped in wind.

But something stirred-
not in the clouds,
but in the quiet corners of myself.

I asked why suffering walks barefoot
through the hearts of the kind,
and why joy often forgets its way home.

God did not thunder.
There was no blaze,
no sermon of stars.

Only a pause,
long enough for me to hear
the sound of my own breathing.

"You are looking outward",
the silence whispered,
"but I have always been
beneath your ribcage,
where the ache lives
and the questions burn".

I wanted answers.
Instead,I was given presence.
Stillness.
A hand I could not see,
but felt.

And in that moment,
it was enough.