The Wraiths of Sorrow

Shadows swell and fracture where sorrow’s wraiths convene
Trailing cold fingers along the fragile spine of dusk
They twist the silence into threads of silver sheen
And press despair like poison beneath the husk
Yet in this haunted company, a fever stirs
A wild, defiant fire, raging just beneath the skin
It will not bow to keening shade or phantom spurs
But rises, bright and raw, to fight and win

Their dirges, thick as fog, invade the mind
But every spectral wail sharpens resolve
Against the tide of ghosts, new strength is mined
And shivering fears are forced to evolve
Through the winding maze of doubt, flame kindles the gloom
The nightmare is not the end, but the forge
Every scream, a distant drum, a doom
That yields to courage, step by step, at every gorge

Despair’s embrace is frigid, but it cannot quell
The incandescent hunger for dawn’s return
The wraiths may gather, but in their shadow’s shell
A light persists, refusing still to burn
Let their lament fuel the storm inside
A beacon blazes, a call to fight
Against the sorrow, stand and ride
The night’s grim tide, toward the coming light