The Rose and the Sinbound
Rhosyn's Journal Entry:
I find myself turning to ink and parchment as if words can fortify the brittle pieces of my heart. There is something in the rhythm of verse, in the gentle pulse of poetry, that soothes the ache no court's promises can touch.
"In shadows deep where secrets lie,
A rose blooms still, beneath cold sky.
Her thorns are sharp, her petals frail,
Against the storm, her courage pale."
Do I write of myself, or of some other creature trapped in a story not her own? Sometimes it feels as though I am the shadow and the rose both, caught between a world that demands obedience and a heart that refuses to yield. How bitter it is to dream of freedom while knowing my wings are clipped, bound by alliances that do not care for the scars they leave behind.
"A crown of thorns, a silken mask,
A future bound in hollowed glass.
Yet hope persists, a trembling flame,
Defiant still, against the pain."
Hope. A foolish word. A fragile thing that clings to the edges of my soul, like a candle flickering in the winds. I write these lines as though hope is a friend, but truly, it's a ghost-a haunting I cannot rid myself of. In the quiet hours of dawn, it murmurs, stirs, and breathes life back into me. It is a torment and a salvation, this hope.
"One step, one breath, one whispered plea,
Against the night, she will not flee.
In silence kept, her song unfolds,
A tale unwritten yet, untold."
Perhaps there is a power in words, in laying bare the fragile threads that hold me together. To write is to bleed without consequence, to free myself, if only for a moment, from the binds of the court. And so, I keep writing.
