I held it close, I held it tight— A sacred stone in ritual night. Sinking slowly into the past, A pool as dark as broken glass. The judging sharpness in my hands, The mocking slip of running sands. I marked the wound, I made the vow, But myths don’t ask the why or how. It bled, it gleamed, it stained the sand— My own reflection in my hand. No light, no vision ever gained From all this silent, twisting pain. And still I grip with all my might In hopes of some reforming sight. But I can't read the words in sand, Written by misery in my hands.