The Loom of Friction

The silence doesnt break it frays,
In the quiet heat of narrow ways.
Where iron wills and heavy hands
Draw borders in the shifting sands.
It is the pull of tides unseen,
The bitter space that lies between
The dream of peace and the cost of bread,
The living word and the stone-cold dead.
It is the spark that strikes from stone,
The weight of standing all alone,
A storm that thrashes through the mind
To leave the wreckage far behind.
Yet in the ache and in the strain,
The muscle learns to hold the rein.
For though the wind may tear the leaf,
The root grows deep beneath the grief.

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 22nd of Lleian, in the year 17 AC.