by Liam

Grief is the icy tide that rises,

Rains streak upon my cheek,

its salt-washed sorrow carving deep

the fragile boundaries of all we keep.

Yet its here, in sorrow’s ache,

where we silently weep and boundaries break,

These tears fall, like silver rain,

To soften my earth for hope’s refrain.

For every thorn that tears the skin

has roots in what will bloom within,

and what was raw, unshaped, undone,

becomes new gold of a morning sun.

O alchemy, O tender grace,

heal the wound with light’s embrace

where once was loss, now beauty grows,

This soul transforms,  with a crimson rose. 🌹 

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