Potential dies silent, A blade sharper than speed, unnoticed in its strike. Brilliance lies dormant, wrapped in the velvet of the ordinary, Its whispers drown in the noise of the familiar.

The uncharted beckons, but feet remain still. The promised greater—lost in echoes of “safe.” We could transcend, Yet we bow to the frail throne of comfort, Chaining tomorrow to today’s inertia.