What Would Not Bow

I wailed waiting too,

trying to save you, I turned,

and we fell apart.

Hardened by your safety,

you opened your arms to flame

and slipped from my reach.

In grief’s rising sea,

you wanted something to hold;

I broke that in me.

Her lies filled the dark,

behind your father’s name

left me bone and dust.

Your gaze drifted east,

leaving my south‑bound hands still;

your borrowed gaze held mine.

In the mirror’s stillness,

I stripped the love held by my string,

and found no more tears.

I tried to nurse hope,

glancing back toward the moon’s glow;

it hid me, showed you.

The still bear remains —

no rose can move what won’t wake,

the stillness that would not bow.