𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦
The weight, a stone within the chest,
Where shadows feed and fears take rest.
The air is thick with silent screams,
And hope departs on sunless streams.
The clockwork heart, a hollow drum,
Beats out the dirge of what's to come.
A barren field, a fallow year,
And every face reflects a tear.
This is the winter of the soul,
Where bitter, frozen waters roll.

But wait, a flicker, faint and low,
A single, stubborn, ember's glow.
It does not roar, it does not blaze,
But cuts the thickest dark with rays.
A crocus, through the frozen ground,
Where no such thing should e'er be found.
A hand reached out in the abyss,
A quiet, unexpected kiss.
The dawn does not proclaim its start,
It first must break a wounded heart.

So despair, the long and starless night,
Holds in its core a seed of light.
And hope, that fragile, trembling thing,
Is born upon a broken string.
One is the soil, one is the bloom,
Both sharing the same lonely room.
The stone feels warmth, the stream finds flow,
From deepest dark, the light will grow.