At the dusk of despair did she beckon
the demons of winter to the warmth of spring,
having faith in the purity of all souls,
believing that they can blossom
when given a chance.
She carved hope into our bones
and spoke of the light reaching
into the genesis of growth
that struggles against suffocation
to break free from the earth,
saying that the chaos of living
causes ripples in the oceans of time,
creating earthquakes and thunderstorms
on the palm of our hands,
and we would know beauty when we saw it.
But where were the gods
to whom we said our oaths,
swearing upon the insanity
that explodes from our dying stars,
that we would learn to live again,
when Death unleashed her fury,
spitting tsunamis overwhelming
and whispering the roar of thunder
that marked the apocalypse of our dreams,
and called us to eternal sleep.
For when the light faded from our vision
did we know the beauty she spoke of:
it was always hidden in their cruelty,
and forever after would we cherish
our grief.
