Patterns Poem by Sharon Namwalizi

I began to notice the patterns,
and with them came a quiet knowing
that I already understood how the story ends.

A strange face, yet unmistakably familiar.
The moment felt like déjà vu
as though I had stood here before,
waiting,
frozen,
despite recognizing the outcome.

I weighed the short, sweet moments
against the fall that always followed.
I knew the answer long before I asked it.
Still,
I did nothing.

I let it play out.

For a while,
I became only a watcher
existing, not choosing,
repeating the same stillness
with a small, stubborn hope
that this time
the ending would change.

I gave room to chance.
Too much room.

Not because I was blind,
but because hope whispered,
and I mistook its gentleness for instruction.

I called that version of myself a fool
not in shame,
but in honesty.

When I finally decided to move,
it was already late.
Yet the wound had not festered;
it was spared the infection
of long-term delusion.

So I gathered myself.
Slowly.
Surely.

I stood again.

And if I ask whether I will let it happen again,
I want my answer to be no.
But truth demands humility
I do not know.

What I do know is this:
hope is part of my faith,
but discernment must walk beside it.
And next time,
hope will knock
yet it will not lead alone.

31/12/25