It is cold,
And getting colder.
So she cups her own flame
Like a lone lantern in the wind—
For no other soul would step forward
To tend its trembling light.
The glow is tender,
Like a hearth against the void,
Comforting...
Until it swells into a silent wildfire,
Turning her into ashes,
But never burning into eternal destruction.
Innocence is a small white flower,
And wisdom is the forest behind it.
Shadowed, ancient, and knowing,
She stepped beneath those branches.
Yet knowledge when gathered
Becomes a storm of wings in the mind.
Chaos, an agony of thoughts
Scatter like startled birds.
So she longed for silence,
A lake without ripples.
But then, silence has its own ghosts,
They murmur in bottles
Left open in a private bar.
And only she,
Can turn it into a flicker,
Drifting in cinders,
Dying like embers.
Though she drifts from the path
The world once drew for her,
She still walks with a pilgrim’s grace,
Draped in the bittersweet fragrance
Of truth’s sharp petals,
And of soft blooms of honesty.
Thus the road lengthens before her,
Like a ribbon of frost.
For it is cold,
And getting colder.
So she cups her own flame
Like a lone lantern in the wind—
For no other soul would step forward
To tend its trembling light.
The glow is tender,
Like a hearth against the void,
Comforting...
Until it swells into a silent wildfire,
Turning her into ashes,
But never burning into eternal destruction.