Threshold of the Still Flame - Arko Ashfaque

Threshold of the Still Flame

- Arko Ashfaque 

Passed the youth firmly,

Entering into middle age;

No longer a storm, but a steady rain—

Measured, quiet, wise with wage.

The blood once leapt like summer fire,

Now courses deep like autumn streams;

The reckless voice of old desire

Gives way to tempered, waking dreams.

The mirror speaks with softer truth,

And time, that gentle tyrant, shows

The cost of every burning youth

Etched lightly where the wisdom grows.

No longer do I chase the wind,

Nor boast in battles fought in vain;

I've lost more friends than I have pinned

To memory’s slow, resplendent train.

Once, dawn would stir the wildest thought,

Ambition sharp, unbridled, bold—

But now, the calm of morning's lot

Is tea half-steeped and silence cold.

The world no longer wears disguise,

Its layers peeled by seasoned sight;

The myths that thrilled my eager eyes

Stand humbled in pragmatic light.

Love, once a storm, is now a sea

That ebbs and flows with wiser tide;

Not grasping, but serenity,

A hand that stays, a heart that bides.

Children’s laughter now seems dear,

Not noise, but echoes of a flame—

Of what I was, and hold near

In others taking up my name.

I walk with purpose, not in haste,

Each footstep weighed with patient grace;

No moment now is deemed a waste,

Each breath an heirloom time can trace.

I’ve known the pang of folly’s cost,

The sting of pride, the gift of fall;

To lose, to mourn, to feel half-lost—

And yet to rise and love it all.

Once, beauty meant a youthful face,

Now, character is what I seek;

In quiet acts, in selfless grace,

In hearts that shine though bodies weak.

The books I read, the pens I wield,

Are not to dazzle, but to last;

To sow in minds a quiet field

That blooms when noisy trends have passed.

The voices of the past now sing

In ways I never heard before—

A father’s word, a mentor’s ring,

Resound with weight I can’t ignore.

I fear not death but useless days,

That slip like sand through idle hands;

I measure life not just in praise,

But where my truest effort stands.

Forgiveness, once a bitter feat,

Now flows with less resistance found;

For I have stumbled, and repeat

The grace that pulled me from the ground.

Some doors are closed, some dreams are gone,

But others rise with golden light;

New passions now have taken on

The shape of peace instead of fight.

What once I mocked, I now defend;

What once I feared, I now embrace;

The arc of life begins to bend

To deeper joys and slower pace.

Not every tale requires a flame,

Not every wound must bleed to heal;

There is a strength in leaving names,

And learning simply how to feel.

I do not envy younger men,

Their bright illusions, burning fast;

For what I hold, though earned through pain,

Is wisdom made to truly last.

Middle age is not a fall,

But elevation few can see;

The summit where the echoes call

From youth, and into legacy.

The soul expands, the ego fades,

The noise retreats, the vision grows;

Though time may tint my hair in shades,

It paints with meaning all it knows.

So here I stand—not at the end,

But on a bridge of tempered fire;

I’ve learned what breaks, and what can bend,

And what is fleeting, what is higher.

And if the night comes sooner now,

Let it descend with gentle grace;

For I have kissed the morning’s brow,

And still can see its after-trace.

Thus passed the youth, not torn nor lost—

But gifted to a deeper page,

Where self meets soul, and learns the cost

And wealth of entering middle age.