I hear it under the wind
a whisper so faint, to be taken back
as if it was never spoken

I hear it over the hill
a murmur betwixt the grass, cut short
out of fear it was remembered

I hear it in the woods
a slow chanting, but shrouded
in the night, away from starlit eyes

I hear it on the wind
it travels to me now, a whistle
harmonic to the air and the sky

Try as you might,
the birds are singing the song of the people.

as I step into this expanse
wild, roaring ocean and fields of sand
a breath enters and escapes me;
I find that my ghosts are falling behind

the shadow of that dagger
still hovers behind me
waiting, aiming to strike

hope coiled like a serpent around my neck
suffocating, like the smoke that fell from your fire,
burning away everything that stood here

but I kneel in the blackened soil
and rub charcoal and ash in the webbing
between my fingers—where yours once rested

appeased, she slackens, falling from my shoulders
as though dead, before slithering into the night,
beckoning—to follow her farther into the wasteland

I find my footsteps falling in her path
though she asks only one thing of me—to believe
to ration my reason, starve off my doubt

I protest with silence, but hope is a dangerous thing,
and knows that despite her, I will always return—
and never with a sword

my heartstrings were woven delicately,
soft and sweet, every pluck and tug
dedicated to some passion, conviction,
and the last, to soul-crushing devotion

if I can make only one request
would you dream of me?

the wind began to warble,
and so the blackbird whispered
"my heart is not a weapon
and my love is not a game"

Every time I have wallowed in my tears,
Every time I have drowned in my grief,
Every time I have loved and lost,
I remind myself—
It has been worse, and I have made it this far
I have made it this far
So that I can see through to better days