The older I grow, the clearer it seems,
truth hides not in words, but in recurring themes.
Apologies fall like fragile glass,
but patterns endure, they do not pass.
A smile may mask, a voice may plead,
yet actions reveal the truest creed.
The gut knows first, before the mind,
the shadowed signs it learns to find.
No longer fooled by practiced lines,
I read the rhythm, the subtle designs.
For people may falter, twist, or deny,
but patterns remain—patterns never lie.