Burns in winter’s wraith —
a soul never feels.
Where the order of silent dominion
poisons petals meant to bloom;
no home, no shelter, nowhere —
cold ice breath beneath,
And so begins a silent rite,
where the rose-red thread
lies like shackles —
binding the feet,
its true nature unveiled.
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 10:40 AM UTC
Burns in winter’s wraith —
a soul never feels.
Where the order of silent dominion
poisons petals meant to bloom;
no home, no shelter, nowhere —
cold ice breath beneath,
And so begins a silent rite,
where the rose-red thread
lies like shackles —
binding the feet,
its true nature unveiled.