Thread of Awakening

She carried a lantern — dusk grew bold,
its flickering breath etched paths through trees.
He leaned in close, his whisper cold,
like memories caught on a passing breeze.

The gravel beneath knew every name,
his gravelly voice — rough, frayed at the seam.
She tied her hair with a ribbon of flame,
a glowing thread — a halo’s gleam.

They spoke just to while away the day —
she remembered: the ribbon was meant to guide.
Still, his voice echoed, then slipped away,
the ribbon flashed — once, twice — then burned inside.

She rebuilt her house, its silence profound,
with patterns and pictures upon the walls —
symbols that shimmered, without a sound,
like echoes of long-forgotten calls.

She wandered through it, skin bare to the stone,
dust on her heels and hurricane in her head,
when suddenly — a bed, black, immense — alone —
and someone already lay within its spread.

“Run!” — a voice rose piercing through the dome.
She remembered: the ribbon was meant to guide.
“Why did you wake me? Now we are one — alone.”
The ribbon flared — once, twice — then burned him inside.

Lost in the dark, she ties her hair with a flame,
a small god alone, unknown, unname.

28.05.2025