the weight we cannot leave

Melanthe:

Theon, the nights are long and cold,

the world feels dim, the stars look old.

How do you bear a heart that’s torn,

and walk through days so frayed and worn?

Theon:

I do not bear it, not alone—

I let it walk, a shadow grown.

It trails me close through dusk and dawn,

a silent friend that lingers on.

Melanthe:

But it bites my bones, it tears my skin,

I want to cast it out, lock it in.

To fling it far where waves can keep,

and drown it deep in endless sleep.

Theon:

Yet seas return what we let go,

loss rides each tide, it learns to grow.

It seeps like salt in wounds unhealed,

a ghost the years cannot conceal.

Melanthe:

Then is there hope? Or only pain,

a winter that will not refrain?

Theon:

Hope is not in forgetting’s art—

but setting a place in the home of your heart

To hum their song through the tremor and ache,

to honor the bonds that nothing can break.

Melanthe:

And will this ache ever fade away?

Theon:

It shifts, it blooms in its own strange way.

A garden of wild, untamed hue—

watered by love, and remembered by you.


                                                    -Deia

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

pen in hand

 The table hums beneath my quiet hands, Ink pools in thought before it stains the page. Outside, the sky folds into shades of ash, And I breathe its weight, gentle as a cage. I wander through the corridors of tomorrow, Building glass castles the clouds might claim. Each dream bends in the wind’s slow whisper, Yet still, I give each one a fragile name. The rain reminds me — I am no puppeteer, The strings hum whether I pull or not. So I sit, as I am, whole in this hour, All I can be — and that is enough.                                                                               -Deia
Read more

introduction

 Theon of Delos — an old philosopher with eyes like bronze in sunlight, hands stained by ink, herbs, and gold dust. Once a wanderer among temples, now a seeker of truth who shapes wisdom like an alchemist shapes metal — slowly, patiently, until it shines. Melanthe — a sea-born nymph, a dark flower of the waves. She was given the role of a muse — to whisper words into the hearts of poets, but never to write her own. Her mind carries whole storms of stories, but her lips are tied by the rules of others.                                                       -Deia
Read more