the monster is too large for a single page
it eats the horizon and expects us to march
carrying iron we never asked to forge
until our hands are smooth with the friction of defense
but tonight the war is a distant rumor
outside the glass of this temporary house
we have spent so many seasons trying to win
measuring our lives by the ground we could hold
against a culture that forgets the shape of a rib
but the victory was always a shallow kingdom
and the soldiers are so tired of the bleeding
they only want to lie down in the clover
so we build a sanctuary out of breath
a fragile micro-climate in the dark
where the rules of the kingdom do not apply
and we can trade our weapons for the simple grace
of watching the quiet water settle in a cup
you and i are the thieves of fire
reaching into the furnace of the world
to steal the sparks that keep the lung alive
not to burn down the palaces of stone
but to light the small hearths in the wilderness
where the beaten can gather and nurse their wounds
we do not need to fix the sky to find the morning
we only need to sit together in this room
until the language for our grief is found
and the gold remembers how to shine
without the permission of the flame
—lyra moon (stolen sparks, quiet water in a teacup)
june 10, 2026