waxen trench
Within the haze of morning’s fog, I stand,
A monument to sins unfurled by hand,
The river whispers secrets soft and low,
As shadows stretch and merge with water’s flow.
Once cradled hope swells within my breast,
A child to hold, a treasure to possess,
Yet fate—a cruel artist armed with brush—
Drew darkness deep where innocence once flushed.
"Forgive me," I murmur, but silence reigns;
My heart is shackled by maternal chains.
The winds howl threats through branches bare and torn,
Echoing the cries of souls ill-born.
Fear wraps its claws around my swelling form,
Each ripple carries whispers of the storm:
“Doomed are the roses in your thistle garden;
Trust betrayed by life which keeps on harden.”
I stand here trembling by death’s cruel altar,
The river mocks as shadows grow much balder.
What weight beneath this newfound body lies?
A tempest born of blood-red skies and cries.
The world spins on as colors bleed to gray;
And here I am—what name have I today?
Mother? Monster? Both bound in chains of shame,
I draw the dagger close—it knows my name.
The apocalypse unfolds in ripples wide—
Birds scatter from shores that once knew pride.
With every stroke against this living womb,
I summon forth despair amidst the gloom.
What visions haunt me in this day’s decay?
Ghosts rise with every gasping breath I say—
"My son! My darling lost!" echoed ‘neath the stars—
But darkness dances closer with its scars.
To stab at flesh where hope was meant to dwell;
I’m sinking now within a personal hell.
Each drop of red upon untouched blue waves—
Marks graves for dreams that time relentlessly paves.
worldly isle
main carbon
)
twilit linden
proper cargo
crystal harbor