The Guardian's Mantle

In a dimly lit room where shadows writhe,

The elder sister’s hands, steady and sure,

Assume the weight of a mother’s mantle—

She crafts solace from the fragile threads of youth.

Her heart, a wellspring of untamed seas,

Navigates the turbulent storms of tender years,

A lighthouse in the tempest,

Guiding the younger through a night besieged by chaos.

The younger, a solitary bird trapped in a storm’s fury,

Struggles against the maelstrom of a mind unmoored,

Its wings battered by unseen winds,

Yearning for the calm within the elder’s reach.

The elder, though bearing a crown not her own,

Finds a peculiar grace in the burden—

Her hands weave the fabric of security,

Stitching each tear with threads of patient resolve.

In the silent dark of troubled nights,

She is both anchor and sail,

Taming the turbulent waters of despair,

Casting nets to draw the sinking heart to shore.

Yet, her own soul bears the weight of borrowed suns,

A mosaic of quiet sacrifices,

Her joy an echo in the labyrinth of care,

Her strength a hidden sun amidst the storm.

Thus, the elder’s gaze remains fixed,

Her love a beacon through the murk,

Saving the younger from a chasm unbridged,

She guards her from the cruel dance of shadows.

And as years unravel the woven past,

The elder stands as both sentinel and sister,

Her heart an enduring reservoir—

A testament to the quiet heroism of a love unspoken.