The Sanctuary of the Unseen

I do not need the world
to witness every rising
Some ascensions are so sacred,
even light holds its breath

There is a temple
within the chambers of my becoming
where silence sits like royalty
and only Spirit knows the path in

Not all joy must be published
Not all grief must be named
There are some victories
etched in soulprint—
far too holy for the noise

My gifts are not up for debate
They were carved in celestial ink
before this skin knew air
I honor them not with exposure,
but with devotion

Let them call it secrecy—
I call it sovereignty.
Let them call it withholding—
I call it worship.

You see,
I am not made for performance.
I am a sacred geometry,
meant to be held, not handled.

My boundaries are not barriers—
they are altars.
Every “no” is a psalm.
Every silence, a ceremony.

I stand rooted in what I believe
not because I must prove,
but because I have already embodied
the truth of my knowing.

My love?
Not performative.
My grief?
Not decorative.
My becoming?
Not for consumption.

This life—my life—
is a spell of private divinity,
a constellation of sacred echoes
that need no audience,
only reverence.

So I will rise,
quiet as morning incense,
mystical as moon-bathed water—
not to be seen,
but to be—

Published by Sherley Delia