Drenched in heavy morning rain, 
like a glacier exhaling into the sea, 
I sit—still, marrow-shaken— 
weighed down by endless tests.

I seek the scoffer’s sympathy. 
My litanies ripple, not through a broken bell, 
but in a warped chime—its notes splinter, 
scattering my pleas into hollow air.

No restaurant on High Street offers solace. 
Then, suddenly—sanity finds me: 
a hand, warm and certain, enclosing mine, 
while her other steadies her child, firm as an anchor.

I carve obsidian ghosts into thought 
as a falcon’s cry splits the sky, 
razor-sharp as shattered glass, 
piercing deep enough to wake me whole.