Ablaze in thy solace, thy hand in my hair
For thou'rt so fragile, so fragile and fair.
Abandon thy fear of compassion for there's
Still an ounce of belief left in me.
My dearest, my labours lie tangled in verse,
My dread of the morrow doth wend to the worse,
I grimace and grasp whilst thou nestle and nurse,
Dost thou yearn for the turn of the breeze?
I cleave and I tear at my muscles and bone,
My sinews unstrung as I gnash and I groan,
Yet worse, I do fear, to be left all alone
In the solace of ferns and fir trees.
“Appease me, release me!” I strangle to scream.
I weep and I worry from dream unto dream
Thou cradle and comfort that Philomel scene,
Would I waken or wander the sea?
© 2026 Connor Erice Tuttle - All Rights Reserved.