Your world sways, its shores giving way,
Beneath a web of veins – a small bird
Beats against the ice of bones. A mute soul
Tries on the chains of despair.
Fever's steep turns burn away,
The tight shell becomes a prison.
Loneliness whets its blade at the brink,
Where instead of a cry – an icy abyss.
But then – a hand. Warm and firm,
Quiets the pain boiling in the veins.
Grounding... and a radiant stillness
Stills the bird that fluttered in the chest.
From now on two hearts keep the step,
Calm has settled in the depth of the pulse.