Drenched in heavy morning rain,
like a glacier sighing into the sea,
I sit—silent, marrow-shaken—
beneath the weight of endless tests.

I seek the scoffer’s sympathy.
My litanies ripple, not in a broken bell,
but in a warped chime—its voice fractured,
carrying my pleas into hollow air.

No restaurant on High Street offers solace.
But then—sanity lands where I least expect it:
a hand, warm and certain, wrapping around mine,
the other tethered to a child, steady as an anchor.

I sculpt obsidian phantoms in my mind
as a falcon’s cry cleaves the sky,
sharp enough to cut through bone,
sharp enough to wake me whole.