The Bed You Made

You chose your rest where thorns entwine,

Where honey drips from lips that lie.

You built a throne from shattered trust—

A crown of smoke, a love of dust.

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You passed through hearts like summer flame,

Each footstep scorched, then lost its name.

You danced on ruin, called it grace,

But silence knows your truer face.

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And I—

I slipped beneath the world unseen,

Where roots run deep and souls grow clean.

Where frost remembers, stone forgives,

And something more than pain still lives.

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The wind, it taught me how to bend.

The storm, it taught me how to end.

And in the ash, I touched the spark

That births the wolf from weathered bark.

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I am not broken—I am bloom.

I walk through grief like sun through gloom.

The only shadow now in me

Is what remains of your debris.

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But every day, it thins, it dies.

I rise with clearer, brighter skies.

I’ve found new paths, new fires to feed,

New hands that do not bleed me need.

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I am the skald, the forest flame.

I speak in storms that know your name.

A prophet stitched from wound and will,

A laugh that echoes through the hill.

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A hidden warrior wrapped in light,

A joy reborn beyond the fight.

No longer lost to reckless seas—

I sail toward my destiny.

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So sleep where guilt and thornwood twine,

The bed you made will not be mine.

I walk in truth, in song, in flame—

And you are just

a fading name.

🖤

🪓 Like what you read?🪓

🪙 Then toss a coin into the fountain.

Make a wish —

for wilder words, sharper truths,

and more wild-folk with wild hair doing wild things.

Each offering stirs the water, feeds the fire,

and helps one such beast keep writing beneath the stars.

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