Rehab

Rehab

In the hushed corridors of the centre,
light falls soft on linoleum,
a steady rhythm of footsteps—
each one a promise to the self
that tomorrow will be gentler
than the bruises of yesterday.

Therapists in calm voices guide
stretch and breath,
their hands steady as the tide
that erodes stone,
turning rigidity into pliable hope.

Minds, once tangled in the thorns
of habit, learn to untangle—
thoughts unfold like pages
of a well‑worn book,
each chapter a small victory,
each sigh a step towards freedom.

The gym echoes with muted clanks,
weights lifted not for show,
but to rebuild the scaffolding
of strength that doubt had shaken.
Sweat beads like dew on grass,
a reminder that labour, however hard,
nourishes the soul as much as the body.

Evenings bring quiet reflection,
journals catching the flicker of candle‑light,
words spilling onto paper—
fears named, griefs acknowledged,
dreams rehearsed in the safety
of four walls that hold, not judge.

Here, rehab is not a destination
but a travelling companion,
walking beside the wounded
until the limp becomes a stride,
until the whisper of “I can”
grows louder than the echo of “I used to”.

And when the doors finally open
to the world beyond,
the individual steps out
not unchanged, but reshaped—
a testament to the quiet courage
found in the routine of healing,
the British‑spelt promise
that recovery, though slow,
is always possible.