Every tear on its way down breaks like glass when they hit the ground.
And yet no one ever hears a sound.
I grasp for the fragments, though sharp they may be.
Cutting through skin and making me bleed.
Hope is a seed that thrives on debris.
I grab a shovel and gripping the handle tight with knuckles white.
I dug this grave in which to place my pain.
The earth fights back, a stubborn cold embrace.
Reflecting the weight of the sorrow that I chase.
Beneath the soil, a darkness takes hold.
Will the seed of hope rise, or remain untold?
Behold the coming dawn.
Up from the grave here comes a song.
A song of angels whose feathers fall.
Torn apart bloody and all.
Their song fills the air, a sorrowful plea,
A lament for the heavens they used to see.
Once radiant beings, now broken and lost,
Their celestial light, forever eclipsed by frost.
The melody weaves a tale of descent.
Of rebellion's fire, and a bitter lament.
The harmony mourns a love that turned cold.
A symphony shattering, a story untold.

Here in this...