A silver net was
cast at night
its threads concealed from mortal sight.
With
glances drifting soft and sly ,
like silent arrows through the sky
The caster thought the waters blind,
too still to read the secret mind.
But depth remembers every mark,
and whispers secrets in the dark
No tender soul was waiting there
but steel that grief had forged with care,
a tempered edge , a steady flame,
that turned the hunter into game
The snare meant for another's heart
snapped like a bowstring , torn apart.
Its woven charm, once wound and spun,
unraveled in the hands of one
The music faltered ,died away,
the painted smile could not stay.
Its honeyed mask dissolved to dust
betrayed by greed, exposed by lust.
From ash and thorn, from wound and flame,
arose a soul not quite the same
a crown of scars, a tempered will,
a quiet strength, unbroken still.
The net was cast , yet none were caught
save the hand that wove the plot.
And pain, once seen as loss to mourn,
became the blade that cut the thorn
No more a fool,
no more a pawn,
the heart endured the breaking dawn.
From shadow's depth,
a soul took flight,
its grief-forged wings
now
burned
with
light