Heartbreak

This poem came from a time when my heart felt like it had been torn open, not just emotionally, but spiritually. Writing it was both a purge and a prayer. I was moving through a grief so profound that it shifted me into another layer of reality. The pain was unbearable, but it cracked something open that logic could never touch.

The vision of the golden-barked trees felt like a gift, a reminder that beauty exists even when we feel shattered. I remember standing in that vision as if it were more real than the physical world, watching their luminous branches swirl with color. It was as though the earth herself was showing me that heartbreak is not an end, but a passage. The physical eyes couldn’t hold onto it, but my soul could. That vision felt eternal, etched into the unseen part of me.

The lesson here was that heartbreak is holy. It doesn’t just hurt, it transforms. Pain has a way of rearranging us, stripping away illusions and showing us what is real. In that rawness, I felt a strange gratitude. The suffering became a doorway into another dimension, one where beauty and sorrow were inseparable.

The distortion this poem helped dissolve was my belief that pain is something to escape or fix quickly. Writing this showed me that grief itself is a guide. It’s not a sign of weakness but of depth of love so great it shakes us awake. The ache became a map, leading me to those golden trees, to visions that whispered of eternal life beyond loss.

“Heartbreak” still feels tender to read because it carries the echo of a real wound, but it also holds the medicine that came with it. It’s a reminder that some of our greatest spiritual awakenings come when we’re brought to our knees. That the visions we receive in our most fragile moments are often the ones that stay with us forever, carrying us back into the light when we’re ready to see again.