5d • Poetry
The echo in the hollow
The siren’s song is a silver lie,
A painted wing that cannot fly.
It offers the sun, then dims the light,
Leaving you cold in the belly of night.
The velvet wears thin, the fire grows cold,
And the "grace" of the fall is a story grown old.
The chains you call golden are heavy and rust,
Turning the heart’s finest chambers to dust.
It asks for your breath, then asks for your name,
Until all that is left is the ghost of the flame.
The kiss that was sweet now tastes of the grave,
For the master is cruel to the one it won't save.
But look at the hands that are trembling and bare,
There is strength in the bone, a life still there.
To break from the song is a thunderous sound,
To plant weary feet on the hard, honest ground.
The world is not still, it is vibrant and loud,
And the sun is much brighter outside of the cloud.
The beauty was borrowed, a thief’s clever art,
But the healing is yours—it belongs to the heart.
The soul may be bruised, but it cannot be owned,
There is power in seeds that in darkness were sowed.
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The echo in the hollow
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