25/09/2025
I tend the flame, but feed it slow,
No storm shall see the fire grow.
I speak in tones of ash and dust,
And bury wrath in brittle trust.
He thinks me calm a docile shade,
But I am storms too still to fade.
I offer smiles, a quiet grace,
Yet carry ruin in my face.
Each word I do not speak is weight,
Each glance withheld, a twist of fate.
He walks in peace beneath my eye,
Not knowing where the embers lie.
The roots are deep, the soil is fed,
With every scar, with every thread.
I water it with all I lack
And wait, and wait, and don’t look back.
Until the day the fruit is sweet,
He'll bite and never feel the heat.
But it will bloom beneath his skin,
And I shall watch, and call it win.
