SAM TUMBLIN

What’s really hidden in a name,
A whispered hope for lasting fame,
Lofty dreams we try to claim,
A spark alive within the flame.

Maybe innocence at the start,
A newborn echo, pure of heart,
Or silent wounds that pull apart,
Leaving shadows like a work of art.

Could a name become our shame,
Or fuel the fire we cannot tame,
Searching deeply through the frame,
Still wondering if we are the same.

So many thoughts a name can bring,
Questions tied to everything,
Yet only ink can softly sing
The truths our restless spirits cling.

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