Vessel of the Vanquished  #BlogchatterA2Z #poetry

(for the soul of a land that bears the burden of pain, betrayal, and fractured history)

A crimson bloom, ripped raw, a brutal tear,
its lifeblood staining a landscape stark and sere.
Petals scattered on a bone-white floor, a silent scream,
the remnants of a beauty, a shattered, fading dream.
The scent of ash, a phantom limb’s ache, a constant sting,
a memory of wholeness that fractured wings cannot bring.

A fractured mirror reflecting a silent earthquake’s might,
distorting the present in the shadows of a light.
One sun, cleaved in two by a phantom line unseen,
casting long, distorted shadows where harmony had been.

A whispered accusation, a guttural denial, sharp and cold,
in the echoing chambers of perpetual trial, stories yet untold.
The ancient river, once a shared vein, a lifeblood flowing free,
now choked with whispers of sorrow and pain, a strangled decree.
Its waters, once a common sigh, a murmur soft and low,
reflect a sky where storm clouds multiply, and bitter winds do blow.

A loom lies broken, its intricate patterns undone,
threads severed and frayed, a tapestry outrun by the destructive sun.
The warp and weft of kinship, violently unmade, a brutal art,
each pulled fiber, a scream suppressed, tearing kin apart.

A legacy of longing, forever distressed, a yearning deep inside,
for the touch of solace, a place where trust could still abide.

The mountain’s stoic gaze, a witness old and grand,
to the slow erosion of stories, brave and bold, across the land.
Its peaks, once beacons of a shared horizon, clear and bright,
now pierce a sky heavy with unspoken poison, obscuring the guiding light.

A dance of shadows, a ritualistic fray, a grim ballet,
where pride struts and empathy melts away, day after weary day.
Each gesture, a sharpened shard of ice, precise and keen,
aimed at the fragile heart of sacrifice, a wound that's seldom seen.

The wind carries murmurs, a lament so deep and vast,
of fractured histories that forever weep, shadows of the past.
A symphony of silence, a deafening void, where echoes cease,
where trust lies shattered, and futures are destroyed, denying inner peace.

A serpent’s coil, tightening its hold, a constricting dread,
on narratives whispered, stories yet untold, fears left unsaid.
Its scales shimmer with suspicion and fear, a venomous sheen,
obscuring the path to a dawn that is clear, a hopeful scene.

The potter’s wheel spins, but the clay is dry and cracked,
no vessel of solace beneath a watchful eye, a future sidetracked.
Each revolution, a grinding despair, a weariness profound,
a future unshaped, hanging heavy in the air, without solid ground.

A pause.
A stillness between gasps.
A moment unburdened—
but only almost.

A bridge stands fractured, its arches undone, a perilous divide,
a testament to journeys that could not outrun the surging tide.
The chasm of difference, the canyon of doubt, a gaping space,
where echoes of understanding have long been snuffed out, leaving not a trace.

The shared hearth, now cold and stark, its warmth a distant gleam,
embers of amity leaving their final mark, a fading, broken dream.
A chill permeates the air, a tangible divide, a frozen breath,
where warmth once blossomed, now shadows reside, embracing silent death.

A flight of caged birds, beating against the bars, a frantic plea,
their songs of freedom reaching distant stars, for all the world to see.
Each flutter a yearning, a desperate plea, a longing to be free,
for open skies and a boundless decree, for all eternity.

The scales of justice, trembling and swayed, a precarious stand,
by narratives spun, and truths betrayed, across the troubled land.
Each added weight, a deepening plight, a burden hard to bear,
obscuring the balance of what is right, lost in the thick despair.

A silent battlefield, where words become the fight, a verbal war,
each syllable loaded with darkness and blight, forevermore.
No clash of steel, no thunderous sound, no outward, brutal sign,
just the slow corrosion of common ground, a fading, fractured line.

The mirror of memory, cracked and unclear, a distorted view,
reflecting fragments of what was once held dear, the old and the new.
Each shard a reminder of promises broken, a bitter taste,
of a shared inheritance, brutally unspoken, a future gone to waste.

A hand outstretched, met with a clenched fist, a gesture denied,
a cycle of rejection that cannot be dismissed, where hopes have died.
Each refusal, a deeper entrenchment, a hardening of the core,
in the barren landscape of resentment, forevermore.

The wellspring of compassion, running dry and low, a parched terrain,
replaced by the bitterness that continues to grow, fueling endless pain.
Each withheld drop, a thirst unquenched, a longing unfulfilled,
a parched landscape where kindness is renounced, and empathy is stilled.

A tapestry woven with threads of strife, a somber, dark design,
a masterpiece of discord, draining the color of life, a tragic, twisted twine.
Each knot a tension, each pattern a scar, a history etched in gloom,
a chronicle of conflict, reaching near and far, sealing a mournful doom.

The pendulum swings, between rage and regret, a dizzying sway,
a cyclical torment that few can forget, at the close of every day.
Each arc a reminder of choices made, in moments dark and deep,
in the long shadow of a fractured cascade, where sorrows softly weep.

A seed of hope, buried deep in the soil, a fragile, nascent spark,
awaiting a season free from turmoil, emerging from the dark.
A tender promise, a whisper of green, a fragile, hopeful sign,
a future where healing can finally convene, where new beginnings shine.

But—
the earth is hardened.
The sun feels cold and wan.
The winds of suspicion
continue to unfold.

The tender shoot struggles, its growth suppressed, a fight against the odds,
by the weight of the past, relentlessly pressed, by unforgiving gods.

And a question hangs—
still, heavy in the stagnant air,
a silent, aching plea,
a whisper beyond prayer.

Will the crimson stain ever truly fade away, its darkness disappear?
Will the fractured mirror ever be remade, banishing all fear?

The answer lies dormant
in the heart of the storm’s eye,
awaiting a moment
when a new path is warm—
beneath a clearer sky.

Until then,
the silence will continue to scream,
a broken echo
of a long-forgotten dream—
still bleeding
on consecrated ground.

#VesselOfTheVanquished #Poetry #Resistance #HealingThroughWords #FracturedIdentities #Grief #Metaphorical #EchoesOfHope #Cultural #SilentWounds

I’m participating in #BlogchatterA2Z