the drums beat outside the glass
and a shadow demands a name
asking which flag i will bleed into
to prove the wound is real
they carry the old iron lanterns
forged in fires i never had to cross
and they are right to hold the spark
against a night that wants to swallow us whole
they tell me the collective breath
is the only air that keeps the lungs alive
but i am watching a single leaf uncurl
wondering if a tree must justify its green
to the forest that birthed it
or if the root is allowed to just drink the dark
and grow toward the sky in silence
perhaps my peace is an illusion
a fragile truce written on water
by a hand that still fears the weight of stone
perhaps the hunger for the ordinary
is just a clever cage i built
to keep from drowning in the open sea
or perhaps the truest grace
is when the heavy hearth is finally left behind
and the gold does not need to remember the flame
to know its own light
i do not know if i am healing
or if i am just hiding
in the soft fabric of an ordinary dress
tucked into the silence of an ordinary room
while the drums beat outside the glass
reminding me of a war
i am so tired of fighting
—lyra moon (a quiet retreat folded inside cheap cotton)
june 7, 2026