Beneath hushed loam,
dream-weaving tendrils spiral
seeking a murmured vow
woven in breath,
buried in dusk,
forgotten by all
save my marrow-deep yearning.

Each whisper, a filament
coiling gently
through clay-veined memory
a sanctuary
of silken dusk,
lit only
by summer's distant ember.

Above, twilight spills
like inked velvet,
threaded with
wistful constellations,
as fragile as
the glass-winged
butterfly of remembrance.

And softly, softly,
the sweet hurt returns..
this bruised devotion
staining horizons
with hues of violet mourning,
amber sighs,
and breathless jade longing.

Here, in quietude,
I am tethered
by cherished hauntings;
bound by Cycles
not as chains,
but familiar arms
aching gently
with the promise of return.

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 2nd of Severin, in the year 12 AC.