An ironclad lady on the rim,
speaks of neither flighted fairies
nor peaches and cream.
Stand tall as you will, come as you are.
I like it just the way the silence falls,
with no hinge asking to be leaned on.
The gatekeeper of a black fortress
where silent cathedral halls stretch far,
a dark I carefully dare to tread upon.
A storm’s bindings strike at the core,
undeniably breathes uncertainty,
weathers out wrath — a kiss in the wind.
Destined tides eventually erode us all,
rounding the cornerstones of toppled temples,
sinking cities claimed by the sea.
The Sun simply flares the sky above.
Without it—
where would we be.