The Fogged Glass of Being

The universal soul is breathing through us,
each inhale a question,
each exhale a song of remembering.
It sends its rivers through our veins,
its winds through our thoughts,
its light through our fragile eyes—
hoping we might notice
the shimmer beneath the ordinary.

But we wear the fogged glass of survival—
money’s gray mist,
the smoke of fear,
the breath of others’ expectations—
until the sacred world blurs
into the practical one.

Still, sometimes,
when the glass clears for a moment—
in a kindness unmeasured,
a tear unstopped,
a silence unfilled—
the soul catches sight of itself again
through our brief transparency,
and whispers,
I am still here. I never left.