When all inside is burned to ash and dus

When all inside is burned to ash and dust, And silence rings, a leaden weight of dread, When like a shattered glass, the soul is thrust To be its own tormentor, cold and dead. No words, no tears — a silent, stifled cry, Frozen in the throat like winter’s crust. As if the world, beneath a darkened sky, Was veiled in black, in one fell, sudden gust. A stone upon my heart, a lump within my throat, The world is wrapped in ice, a grey and frozen coat. My soul is shivering, so lonely and so deep, In ringing emptiness, where only sorrows sleep. It’s not the heart that aches — the void is sore, Where once the dawn would sing and birds would fly. My soul, upon a broken page once more, Trembles with a primal shame, a sigh. The wind roams through the corners, bleak and vast, Sweeping away all faith, all hope, all light. I will not give this pain to you, to cast Upon your shoulders, like a cloak of night. A stone upon my heart, a lump within my throat, The world is wrapped in ice, a grey and frozen coat. My soul is shivering, so lonely and so deep, In ringing emptiness, where only sorrows sleep. It stays with me. Familiar as a shade, A hidden burn beneath the ribs, a sting. The moonless day is so like night arrayed, It seems I’m woven, by a God-made thing, From only pain... But somewhere there, within the deepest deep, Beneath the ash and granite, cold and vast, A spark still flickers, waking from its sleep — Unstitched, unhealed, yet holding to the last. A stone upon my heart, a lump within my throat, The world is wrapped in ice, a grey and frozen coat. My soul is shivering, so lonely and so deep, In ringing emptiness, where only sorrows sleep.