Wasn’t it meant to be warm and bright,
Summer’s promise after winter’s bite?
Yet clouds now gather, winds take flight—
Cold gusts dance in morning light.

Rain lashes down like truth unsaid,
Whispers, “Winter never truly fled.”
And just like life, it seems to be,
The calm was only temporary.

We map out dreams, draw perfect lines,
Prepare for joy in future times—
But one small storm, and all resets,
Plans are wrecked with no regrets.

So we improvise, begin once more,
Build from ruins, stitch what tore.
Again, again—the endless art,
Of breaking just to restart.

Still, why does it ache each time it ends?
Why don’t we toughen, why not transcend?
Is it weakness to feel, or strength misunderstood,
To grieve what’s lost, to wish we could?

They say detach—feel less, be free,
But isn’t sorrow the price of being deeply?
Who said sadness is joy’s true foe?
Peace lies in the stillness, not high or low.

No need to chase the highs or mourn the dips,
Indifference calms the trembling lips.
Yet even so, with dreams unmet,
The courage to try again is the bravest bet.

So weigh it well—this fragile heart,
That breaks and builds, each time a start.
If peace is found in letting go,
Then pain, too, has its rightful glow.