A Sonnet of Broken Pieces
The thorns wrap ’round my neck with silent might,
Their crimson touch a truth I cannot feign;
Cold waves rise up and cage my fading light,
A tempest stirring deep inside my pain.
Exhaustion wears my fingers to the bone,
I watch them fall like hours I can’t reclaim;
In quiet ruins, I lie all alone,
My body aging faster than my name.
A father sneers, a mother breaks in cries,
While others turn from all they think I lack;
They leave me drowning under quiet skies,
Still praying for a breath to pull me back.
Yet here I stay—beneath the storm I dread—
Still fighting off the weight inside my head.
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