You raised your hand to me,

a shadowed storm in the dawn light,

your eyes sharp like daggers,

piercing through the heart of my trust.

Each rise of your palm, a thunderclap,

fracturing the silence, breaking the gentle lull

of childhood whispers,

the tender promises of love unbroken.And in that fiery moment,

as you stepped further into the darkness,

my spirit crumbled like old paper,

burned by the flame of your ire.

Yet, here you stand anew,

trembling, a mirror reflecting

the fierce weight of your own hand,

its shadows now cast upon your son,

who looks up at you with wide, unblemished eyes,

a world still woven with hopes unfurling.But how do you raise a hand in love

when love has felt the sting of your anger,

when affection has tasted the ash from the wreckage?

Do you see him, the fragile bloom in your garden,

the small heart that beats with trust,

yawning wide with the innocence you once crushed?

Do you drown in that fear, the echo of what you were,

or do you dare to rewrite the story,

to let the night melt into daylight,

to nurture instead of harm, to bind instead of break?In the silence of each moment you ponder,

the air hums with a story between you,

an ancient melody of hurt and healing,

while the past curls like smoke, hangs heavy upon your heart.

You ache for redemption while the child waits,

an open book in need of tender hands.

As you raise your hand now,

let it be the touch of a gentle breeze,

the shade of a protecting tree,

the promise that pain will never find

a home in that small heart again.