Skyward from Below

I’ve seen the world tilt

in amber infernos,

where smoke scribbles its grievances

across the airy hush of twilight.

But here—

above the well, ancient-lipped and silent—

the sky hovers like a held breath.

No flames, no shrieking rafters,

just a raven

cloaked in soot-colored prophecy,

staring down at something

only the dead remember.

We are kin, the raven and I—

we who return again and again

to the edge of things,

perched between worlds

with wrinkles burned into our bones.

They call me brave,

as if the fear doesn’t rise

like ash in my throat.

As if I don’t sometimes

wish the ceilings would not

fold inward with such ease.

But here, now—

this moss-clad ruin

is not a battleground,

but a sanctuary.

A moment folded,

creased like an old map

in my memory’s jacket pocket.

There’s light

(yes, even here)

slipping through the canopy

like spilled hope.

It dapples the raven’s feathers,

making it seem less omen,

more oracle.

The well speaks in quiet chills.

It hums with the voices

of things that used to be—

bucket drops, laughter,

drowning secrets.

And I,

singed at the edges,

stand smiling.

Because the sky—

the sky is still blue

somewhere above the smoke.

It’s still wide and unwounded,

waiting to pour down something

clean.

The battle is never done.

I’ll return to the char and chaos,

where children cry and ceilings collapse.

But I carry this—

this forgotten nook,

this patient stone,

this pause in the green hush of ruin.

Even the raven blinks slowly,

its judgment softened

by the hush of stillness.

There is no shame

in seeking joy

beneath grief's shadow.

No shame

in finding brightness

glistening

at the rim of a well

the world forgot.

And above—

always above—

the sky remains.