Lanterns of the Healing Room

I carry a stone wrapped tight in wire, a small, warm ember of my oldest fire.                                                                    

It rests on my chest like a quiet guide, a reminder that truth lives deep inside.

The healing room waits with its lanterns aglow, casting soft light where the lost pieces go.

My clothes hold earth — brown threads, soft seams — the kind that steady a trembling dream.

The plants in the corner lean in like kin, whispering breathe as the work begins.

Lantern light gathers the fragments I’ve lost, melting old fear from its frozen frost.

I rise in the glow where my shadows align, turning each tremor to a rooted sign.

This is my magic — the body, the ground, where scattered light comes home to be found.