Rest
Each fingertip tells the story of your labor, your palm cradles the essence of your strength;
Golden eyes retired safe behind your eyelids, lines in the corner testament to laughter;
And that laughter is wicked, rich and strong, the lilt that signs the right road taken.
We are both gentle, and awkward, and made of steel,
Lives spent tending the crucible of logic and emotion,
Rage forged and tempered in tender otherness,
Voiceless yearning to be heard before we scream.
Advertisement
