The Watcher

I once thought you a lighthouse,

a keeper of wisdom,

a voice carried by wind and weight.

But the light flickered

when I did not bow.

When my truth

did not fit your hands,

you reshaped me in your mouth,

bent my words like wire,

twisted them to fit your frame.

And now, you watch.

You read my lines in secret,

count my echoes,

measure my steps,

trace my growth

like an astronomer

charting stars they cannot touch.

I do not watch you.

I do not count.

I do not name.

I rise.

And you, still searching

for the flaw in my flight,

remain tethered to the ground.