The Price

So many know the way I ought to live,
Watching me stumble - safely from above.
But none of them will walk the road I give,
Nor wear my name, nor carry what I love.

They do not see the nights without a sound,
When silence swallows questions left unspoken,
When piece by piece I gather what I found
Of faith and strength that once felt almost broken.

From shopfront glass they measure what they see -
A polished smile, a steady, practiced stride.
“She’s lucky,” whispers passing certainty,
Blind to the price that every “must” must hide.

 They do not count the stones beneath my feet,
 The quiet wars no witness ever knew,
 The doubt, the fear, the discipline discreet
 That shaped the person standing in their view.

 And only One who knows the hidden deep,
 Who saw the winter settle in my chest,
 Has led me where I did not choose to weep -
 Beyond the life I once thought would be best.