External forces converge,
dragging backward-
tearing open the vault
of the most excruciating hour.
Malicious, monstrous,
they descend:
devilish architects of agony,
carving wounds
deep into the marrow of the soul.
Again and again,
undoing is orchestrated,
deliberate as surgeons
of suffering.
Each trauma, a tidal wave
crashing over fragile ground,
until all that remains
is a silent witness
hovering above,
watching the spectacle
of bludgeoning.
Pain becomes a landscape-
jagged, unending-
traversed with every
out of body gasp.
Below,
a broken vessel lies
encircled by laughter,
the jeering chorus
of tormentors
refusing mercy,
cemented as ghouls
in the mausoleum
of memory.
Exploited, discarded,
left for dead-
again and again,
the cycle repeats
until mind freezes,
paralyzed by horror,
trapped in a loop
of endless violation.
Yet somewhere
in the fractured mosaic
of recollection,
a memory persists-
not of escape,
but of a pulse:
a secret ember
glowing in the ash,
a whisper of dawn
curling beneath the rubble.
From the ruins,
a strange, wild root
twists toward the surface,
craving the taste
of rain and sunlight-
not yet a bloom,
but a promise
coiling in the dark,
preparing,
in its own time,
to split stone
and reach for sky.
A secret ember <3. Love that you are a poet too x