(the after-song of a once-wild heart)
Now the days drift soft and slow,
and Johnny basks in evening’s glow.
His battles long behind him lie,
his kingdom now—an open sky.
He hops with calm, his gaze grown kind,
a little wary, but peace in mind.
No longer warlord, no longer scar,
he hums content beneath the star.
Others come, with hands unsure—
he’ll sniff, he’ll weigh their hearts, be sure.
And if their touch is soft, sincere,
he’ll grant them closeness, draw them near.
He leans to gentle palms, so brave,
yet keeps the trust he had to save.
For love, he’s learned, is something won—
not taken quick, nor forced undone.
But lift him wrong, with trembling hand,
and he’ll remind them—understand—
that hearts, once hurt, though they forgive,
still teach the world how love should live.
Now when I sit and stroke his fur,
he hums his quiet rabbit purr.
And I can feel, beneath his frame,
the soul that once refused a name.
He’s still my flame, my little storm,
but now he curls where it is warm.
A rebel tamed not by command—
but by the patience of an open hand.
So when I see him close his eyes,
I know that peace was worth the tries.
For love, though slow, and sometimes scarred,
blooms brightest in what once was hard.
Dec 1, 2025
Dec 1, 2025 at 5:17 PM UTC
(the after-song of a once-wild heart)
Now the days drift soft and slow,
and Johnny basks in evening’s glow.
His battles long behind him lie,
his kingdom now—an open sky.
He hops with calm, his gaze grown kind,
a little wary, but peace in mind.
No longer warlord, no longer scar,
he hums content beneath the star.
Others come, with hands unsure—
he’ll sniff, he’ll weigh their hearts, be sure.
And if their touch is soft, sincere,
he’ll grant them closeness, draw them near.
He leans to gentle palms, so brave,
yet keeps the trust he had to save.
For love, he’s learned, is something won—
not taken quick, nor forced undone.
But lift him wrong, with trembling hand,
and he’ll remind them—understand—
that hearts, once hurt, though they forgive,
still teach the world how love should live.
Now when I sit and stroke his fur,
he hums his quiet rabbit purr.
And I can feel, beneath his frame,
the soul that once refused a name.
He’s still my flame, my little storm,
but now he curls where it is warm.
A rebel tamed not by command—
but by the patience of an open hand.
So when I see him close his eyes,
I know that peace was worth the tries.
For love, though slow, and sometimes scarred,
blooms brightest in what once was hard.
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