The Bow and Blade

I wake to glow that spills across the floor,
A burnished lie that warmth and peace abide.
Yet in my chest, a shadow wails for more,
A restless the pull that will not turn or hide.

The morning hums with tasks that must be done,
The clatter, cries, the laughter, distant, thin.
I lift my hands to work before the sun,
Yet war within me fights to let them win.

Some days I rage at phantoms, name them none,
A tempest thrashing though the sky is clear.
Some days I sink where burnished waters run,
And drink the dark I swore I would not near.

But joy is not so weak that it should flee
It waits within the music’s quivering thread.
The violin, its aching melody,
Unfolds the prayer I cannot speak instead.

My hands still write, though fingers twist and burn,
The ink still sings, though lips are split and dry.
For something in me knows I must return,
That the gift unearned pursues, though weary feet deny.

Oh, do not let me stumble from the glow,
Nor let the freight of sorrow make me blind.
I see it still, though far beyond my sight,
A forbearance fierce, a love that will not mind.

The children pull, they beg me turn and stay,
And in their hands, I glimpse what I have missed.
Their voices rise, a song to call me brave,
Their touch, a proof that hope still must exist.

And so I sing, though song may crack and fail,
I write, though words may stumble, frail and few.
For even in the dark, the strings prevail,
And draw my heart toward morning’s glow anew.