Through fire's wrath and earth's embrace,
He fell to ash, lost from his place.
The rain, a song of sky's lament,
Woke what the flames to darkness sent.

The witch, her hands like ancient trees,
Whispered life on the shifting breeze.
Her words wove through the soot and loam,
To call him back, to bring him home.

The ash dissolved, the earth gave way,
And from the mud, his flesh did sway.
Rain kissed his form, his body whole,
A vessel new, but the same old soul.

He walked through streets where silence lay,
Past mourners steeped in yesterday.
Eyes wide with shock, their grief undone,
For the dead had risen, returned as one.

He reached the house of shadowed pain,
Where she had wept through endless rain.
Her milky eyes could never see,
But grief had shaped her destiny.

Her soul, she’d sold for just one chance,
To feel his touch, his fire, his dance.
He pressed his fingers to her lips,
A ghost, alive, in love's eclipse.

She felt his hunger, wild, unbound,
A rhythm fierce, a primal sound.
The world fell still as they entwined,
Her blindness pierced by love's design.

For one last time, their spirits burned,
A fleeting gift for what she yearned.
A witch's bargain, brief and cruel,
The fire of love, a timeless fuel.

I am the meek one, soft as milk,
The lamb in the dew’s first breath,
Trailing petals in a path to slaughter,
Eyes wide, heart blooming with trust.
The air whispers its secrets:
"Be still, be still,
Your blood will nourish the roots."

But beneath the quiet mask,
The dormant beast waits, claws coiled.
Her breath rattles in the dark of my lungs,
Her eyes gleam in mirrors I dare not meet.
She sharpens her teeth on the bones of silence,
A warrior clothed in shadow,
Bound to the pulse of her restless blade.

I walk the tightrope stretched between us,
Each step a hymn to fragile peace.
But the scales groan, the weight shifts—
Balance is a fickle mistress.
The lamb whispers, "Mercy,"
The beast roars, "War."
Their voices weave through my veins,
Twin rivers threatening to flood.

The line beckons, a seam stitched with fire,
Daring me to cross, daring me to break.
The lamb trembles at the precipice,
The warrior takes her hand.
It is not choice but inevitability—
A tide surging through the marrow of my bones.

I am both the hunter and the hunted,
The blade and the throat it kisses.
Change is a storm I cannot deny;
War is a dance I must learn to master.
The lamb bleeds, the beast awakens.
There is no balance, only fusion,
Only the becoming of something whole.

We’ve made this place of leaving—
a vault for the untended.
Emotions stack like unlabeled jars,
their contents thick with time,
sediments of grief,
crystals of joy unsavored.

Are we the living,
or the ones who forgot
to move their hands
in the rhythm of the world?
The air smells of waiting,
stale, heavy with pause.
We circle the same questions,
polishing them into mirrors
where our faces blur.

Inside us,
an atlas torn apart:
coastlines of longing,
islands of silence,
rivers carving paths we never took.
Each scar a road.
Each sigh a compass.
Yet the map to home
eludes us still.

We walk the perimeter of ourselves,
searching for the key we swallowed.
The treasures we hoard
are dust without light,
their worth unseen,
their meanings locked
in a language we once spoke
but let slip away.

What is this place?
A limbo where our shadows
mourn their bodies.
Here, even death hesitates,
unsure if it belongs.
And we, the keepers,
stand guard over
what we cannot name—
prisoners and sentinels both,
afraid to leave,
afraid to stay.