The Art of giving

The Art of Giving

I bore the gift of endless giving,
Yet drank no wine of my own living.
The crowd’s applause, a fleeting flame,
Chained my soul in gilded shame.

In twilight’s hush I raised my plea,
“To Heaven’s throne, look down on me.
Grant me strength, O Lord of skies”
The thunder spoke: “That strength is thine.”

“Look upon the mirror’s face,
See the daughter of a storm-born race.
A warrior carved from ash and flame,
Whose whispered prayers the angels claim.

The fire was coiled within your chest,
A serpent waiting to manifest.
The sirens round you sang deceit,
Yet iron sprouted from your feet.

Your scroll is blank, your tale unwinds,
The Fates still spin your thread of lines.
The ink is blood, the pen a sword,
Your story waits to be restored.

You poured your light to shadowed hands,
Built temples out of shifting sands.
You crowned the cruel with laurel leaves,
And sowed in fields where liars weave.

But mortal hearts are not your chains,
You rise beyond their petty pains.
Your love’s a forge, your soul enough,
A jewel unearthed from caverns rough.

When Death extends his shadowed hand,
He gathers empires, dust, and sand.
But stars will sing the tale you wrote,
A legend carved in Heaven’s throat.