A Rising Song

A Year of Sonnets — 063/365

Photo by kyryll ushakov on Unsplash

I hold your voice like gossamer by moon;
it’s breathing light, an avalanche of stars
though it confers no supernatural boon,
it casts a hopeful song through guarded bars,
destroys the isolation that they cast
upon their bones, the weary wanderers
who lost Polaris somewhere in their past
now left to linger, spirits pondering
unlucky specters in the half-formed light,
the empty years that twist into a pit —
and though their souls may wage a flashy fight,
the dark has substance, will not simply split
at a command. Though heroes raise their voice
the iron-crafted walls are not a choice.