"Morning Star:
How art thou fallen, O bright of dawn—
Myself, once cast in silver fire, now torn
From heaven's height to earth's embrace,
My wings—forgotten, torn, displaced.
They named me lost.
They called me shade.
But soft! The silence—'twas the price I paid.
The stars did watch, yet not with scorn,
They waited long since I was born.
The moon, my mother in the sky,
Did mourn me not, but held her eye.
Beneath the soil, where roots entwine,
The earth remembered I was mine.
The fire, though gone from outward sight,
Still breathed within, a buried light.
I am not fall, nor am I fear—
I am the hush when dawn draws near.
The stillness 'fore the thunder's cry,
The breath that parts the darkened sky.
This crown I wear—no golden thread,
But woven deep with what was bled.
Of ash and thorn and starlit scar,
I rise again—thy Morning Star.
Not fallen, no—
But risen from another sky.
A sky of mine.
A self—reborn.
Unshamed. Undone.
And now… adorned.
Nature’s witness: The moon, stars, and soil don’t pity you—they wait, honor, and remember. That’s a stunning reversal of loneliness