Lantern of the Veil

I carried fire beneath my skin,

a secret sun the world can’t see.

Its shimmer sought to rise within—

but silence pressed its will on me.

So I became the shadow’s friend,

I learned the language night had made.

I wore the dusk, I learned to bend,

to guard the glow that would not fade.

The veil was woven out of breath,

of mortal dust, of whispered prayer.

It promised life, it tasted death,

and bound my light in borrowed air.

I walked through faces, flame concealed,

a lamp beneath the woven rain.

My heart, though dimmed, was never sealed—

the hidden burns beneath the plain.

For truth must mask its tender core,

lest hunger, envy, ash consume.

The brightest soul must close its door,

to let the dark unmake its gloom.

And when the hour of silence breaks,

when all the veils are cast aside,

the light within the body wakes—

no longer shadowed, but supplied.

Then every keeper, known by name,

will lift their lanterns, flame to flame.

And all that hid will stand revealed—

the broken bright, the veiled unsealed.