The world stands on its peak,
like a coin that refuses to fall.
Every street feels thin beneath me,
every handshake hides a thorn in the soft.
They say one wiser heart today
must carry the weight of seven sages
yet mine keeps slipping through the cracks,
like sand that won’t stay in my hands.

Oh traveler, hold your shadow close,
the wind learns your name too fast now.
One person is a maze these days,
and I lost the thread somehow.

Seven sages in a single skull,
still I lose my place again.
Wisdom used to walk straight roads,
now it swims through shifting sand.
Tell me—who’s ever mastered the tides?
Who’s ever held the ocean still?

I stitch my footsteps into stairways,
turning echoes into chances I can climb.
The art of finding my way these days
feels like building wings from borrowed feathers.
They fall apart on Sunday mornings,
almost hold on Monday nights
and on Tuesday I swear I can fly,
until Wednesday asks for proof.

Once, a whole crowd
could fit inside a single understanding.
Now one person carries storms,
orbiting their smile like hidden weather.
I try to read their shifting skies,
but my compass keeps apologizing.

Seven sages in a single skull,
still I lose my place again.
Wisdom used to walk straight roads,
now it swims through shifting sand.
Tell me, who’s ever mastered the tides?
Who’s ever held the ocean still?

To know another is a trial by mirror;
to know the world is a trial by fire;
to know yourself is a trial with no jury.
I juggle truths like burning coals,
drop the ones that scorch too honestly.
Even silence is a skill now
a currency shaped by restraint.

And when the peak begins to crumble,
when the coin finally chooses how to land
may the sages in my skull
whisper in the same direction,
and may it be the right one,
just once.