I wondered if the Oracle would give me a cadralor today.
From this, forests grow
The garden shrinks,
cringes from the snapping of the cold,
bubbles with mud boiling from worm holes.
A wren calls in its fierce voice,
and for a moment, winter listens.
There are always shadows,
even in the crook of your arms, and tears are never far.
You smooth my hair from my face,
gentle as that lost look.
There. They fall.
For some, the threads are tangled,
and worship is tied to the kite string of abuse.
Their hands tangled with caresses
strike purple bruises
across the same trembling skin.
Show me how sleep is not death,
the coloured mists within the darkness,
and walk with me where we were happy.
Look with me for the prints of our feet
beneath the fallen leaves.
Sprung from crawling, rotting earth,
petals curl and unfurl to elaborate the rose
and the music of its scent. Remember that,
when the ocean sky roars and pours only bitterness—
stormlight and sunlight are cut from the same cloth.