Amid realms where magic softly weaves,
A sorceress in shadows grieves.
Her heart bound by empathy's grace,
A healer of souls, she finds her place.
With tender touch and whispers kind,
She mends the fragments left behind.
In broken hearts and spirits worn,
Her gentle magic is reborn.
Yet, with each mend and soothing balm,
Her heart feels sorrow's haunting psalm.
For soldiers' souls she tends and cures,
But her own solitude endures.
In midnight's hush, her chants take flight,
A sorceress of healing light.
Through woven words and mystic brews,
She mends the souls, old wounds diffuse.
But as the shadows gently part,
Her desolation strains her heart.
Into the world, she sends them back,
While she, in silence, stays off-track.
In silent woods and sacred glades,
Her presence comforts and persuades.
To mend the hurt, the sorrows known,
Her mission crafted, love is sown.
Behind her eyes, a hint of pain,
Her sacrifices aren't in vain.
The broken find their paths renewed,
But she remains in solitude.
Though magic flows within her veins,
It's isolation that she maintains.
A cursed healer with a blessed art,
To mend lost souls and then depart.
And so she stays in shadows' veil,
Her presence, like a soothing gale.
While others find their peace and start,
She mends in solitude, her own heart.
About the Creator
Stephanie Wright
Mother, writer, and entrepreneuer with a passion for the eerie and enigmatic world of Lovecraftian horror. Unveiling the mysteries of both family life and the cosmic unknown through the power of storytelling.
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More stories from Stephanie Wright and writers in Poets and other communities.
Imprisoned
Every night is the same. I scramble to my chamber, close my eyes so tight my ears rattle, and I wait. I hear the shuffling of their giant feet as they deliver my cell mate to the bunk above me. I fear the pounding of my heart as it slams against my sternum will draw their attention to my location, as is my dread every night at this time. The smaller one knows I’m here, and it will eventually eradicate me if given the chance. They call it J’es Seigh. I listen for the shrieks of J’es Seigh as they fight to imprison it within this hellscape of a cell with me. While I know we are both certainly captive, it will only ever see me as another enemy.
By Stephanie Wright9 months ago in Horror
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar2 days ago in Feast
Comments (2)
Wonderful piece, Stephanie! The structure and flow lend it an almost lyrical feel. I could practically hear someone singing the words. The recurring theme of "solitude" almost felt like the chorus that returned throughout and at the end. Excellent work, looking forward to reading more from you!
I love this poem!