She rose beneath a gentle sun’s pure fire,

A beacon of hope, veiled in silver-green attire.

The vow of dawn gleamed softly in her tender hold;

Each song she offered fell to earth as drops of gold.

Her roots breathed hymns of joy through dreaming ground,

Each ray bore a blessing, each breeze a gentle sound.

Adorned in bloom, her branches fed the hungry soul,

A lucid heart serene, a kind spirit whole.

Yet no scar remained,

No shadow disobeyed.

But somewhere 'neath the bloom, still buried deep,

A nightmare stirred in shallow sleep.

Hold fast, O bright one ... for every day must part.

Too soon the dusk will fall ... prepare your guiltless heart!

Uuuhuuuhuuu

Mhhmmhmmmm

Uhhhuhuuuu

Ohoooooooo

Then came the storms ... and swallowed every song,

Drought and frost drank mercy dry, that bloomed in her so long.

She grew thorns as language in defense ... till the tender turned away;

her fruit, once sweet, grew bitter from her lonely tears’ decay.

As rain forsook her, she learned to feast on what still breathed ...

Drawn by despair, by searing hunger unrelieved.

She mistook endurance for meaning,

And pain ... for proof.

Each ache a tutor; each fracture shaped her truth.

And in the hush that followed breaking ... she bowed her head, and called it waking.

Look up, O fading one ... remember gentle rain.

Hear my promise: Don't give in; it shall find you once again.

Uuuhuuuhuuu

Mhhmmhmmmm

Uhhhuhuuuu

Ohoooooooo

No storm endures forever; even ruin finds its rest.

Yet solace drifted by ...

a hollow nested in her chest.

When the sun returned ... tender, unarmed ...

knocking at her door,

she didn't open; she could not anymore.

Unable to bend, to heal, or even cry ...

Her roots had drained her heart, left it cold and dry.

Thus she rules upon the rot she breeds;

the ground beneath her weeps and bleeds.

She thrives within the shadows she has grown;

All she touches stills, or turns to lifeless stone.

What wound can shape reality?

When does pain become identity?

"I wore beauty ... and was betrayed.

I cherished life ... and watched it fade.

Now I feast on what can’t flee,

I rot ... to mar all purity."

So she spits her curse ... no ember left inside;

She, the vessel of rot, pure mercy turned to blight.

O withered one, I cannot bear what you’ve become.

You’ve lost your gentle glow ...

And I must part; I have to let you go.

Uuuhuuuhuuu

Mhhmmhmmmm

Uhhhuhuuuu

Ohoooooooo