by MissT
The Rains of Ruin
I lie awake and listen to the rain,
And wonder why its voice is gentle, kind;
How something falling endlessly can tame
The frantic thoughts inside my mind.
It guards me from that winter, old and deep
An ancient fear that froze my tongue too young,
Before I learned what human warmth could keep,
When every vow I needed went unsung.
The blows, the hatred, sharp as iron shard,
Were pressed into a soft and forming soul;
I fought a private war, unmarked and hard,
To save a life – no witness thought to hold.
My early years: a house condemned to fall,
Its beams fed rot by kindred malice sown;
A lifted hand, a silence down the hall,
Left me estranged from love I’ve since outgrown.
Now tending gardens of my own small light,
I dig for roots beneath their failing bloom
Why soil that should have held me through the night
Collapsed and sealed my childhood in a tomb.
Yet knowledge is a cold and distant shore;
It names the wound but cannot draw out pain.
I turn the burning ember inward more
And meet my storm where it begins—with rain.
The moss climbs slowly up the walls of day
And claims the shadows of the hurts I bear;
I wait for when the weeping skies may wash away
What still returns as breathless, brittle fear.
Let every drop become a fragile key
To rooms I barred and named beyond my own;
If something broken still remains in me,
Let rain unseal the self I’m learning grown.
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