Know When to Bow Out
There is a rhythm to the tide, a pulse within the sea,
A lesson in the falling leaf that drifts down from the tree.
It does not cling with desperate hands against the winter’s chill,
It understands the time has come to let the world grow still.
But we, with heavy, human hearts, find grace a bitter draft,
We cling to sinking vessels and we claim they are a raft.
We stay within the burning house until the smoke is thick,
Ignoring how the candle’s flame has vanished from the wick.
The stage is grand, the lights are bright, the music fills the air,
And while the melody is sweet, we’re glad to linger there.
But even finest symphonies must find their final chord,
Before the players grow too tired and audiences bored.
To stay beyond the curtain call, to pace the empty hall,
Is to invite the shadow-weight of pride before the fall.
The finest exit isn't made when all the cheers have died,
But when the spirit feels the turn of some internal tide.
It shows within a love that’s soured, where words have turned to glass,
Where every conversation is a bridge you cannot pass.
We fight for ghosts of who we were, for promises long dead,
And starve ourselves on crumbs of hope when we should seek for bread.
There is no virtue in the ache of holding what is gone,
No courage in the tired eyes that dread the coming dawn.
To bow away from hollow arms is not a sign of fear;
It’s honoring the sacred truth that you no longer hear.
