The Man I still sing to

The Man I Still Sing To

I still read him stories
of brave souls and rising kings,
turning courage into lullabies
soft enough for the night to carry.

I still whisper rhymes beside him,
gentle as moonlight on quiet waters,
hoping every word becomes
a shield around his dreams.

For I know�"
he is not weak.

He carries a mind
sharp enough to protect his home,
a heart steady enough
to survive the storm.

He is a man
who loves poetry and written words,
yet his life itself
is the greatest poem he has written.

From nothing,
he sketched his own path,
learning the value of pain,
the cost of survival,
and the meaning of life.

He will never surrender
to those who stand against him,
for every wound only taught him
how to stand stronger.

And still, at night,
I tell him stories through poems
so sleep may comfort him,
so fear may never rule him,
so dreams may remind him
to believe in himself.

People leaned on his kindness,
made their lives easier through him,
used his silence,
and mistook patience for weakness.

But he is no child anymore.

He has always carried responsibility
like fire in his hands,
carefully, painfully,
without letting it consume him.

For years he watched the storm gather,
learning every shadow,
every hidden motive,
every move waiting in darkness.

Now he simply waits
for the storm to break,
because he knows
every storm must eventually pass.

He has prepared himself.
Built his strength quietly.
Forged his weapons from wisdom,
patience, and truth.

And when the flood rises,
he will stand before it unshaken
and speak only one thing:

“You are evil,
and evil cannot destroy me.
I stand with my family.
That is my strength.
That is why I will survive.”