In the sighing hush of dusk’s pallor,
Where wilted roses bleed cold ink,
I wander the cracked cobbles of Duras,
A city draped in mourning lace and ash.
The sky, a bruised velvet tapestry,
Weeps violet rain that never touches ground—
It drips into the void, a silent choir,
Echoing my hollowed heart’s refrain.
I am tired, the moon‑worn lantern whispers,
The stars have folded like wilted pages,
Hope, a moth with torn wings, has fled,
Leaving only shadows to converse.
No ember glows within my chest,
Just a cavern of dust‑kissed sighs,
Where once the wind sang Aetherial Hymns,
Now only the wind howls “Defeat.”
Yet in the gloom, a lone fern unfurls—
A sprig of midnight moss, stubborn, bright—
It dares to drink the sorrow‑rain,
And turns each tear to glimmering sapphire.
Perhaps the world is a cracked mirror,
And every shard reflects a fragment lost,
If I gather them, piece by trembling piece,
Might I stitch a new constellation;
One that bears the weight of my weariness,
Yet still glows with the faintest ember.
Until then, I linger in the hush,
Wrapped in velvet night’s tender shroud,
Listening for the soft, impossible whisper:
“Even the deepest night ends with dawn.”