the monster is too large for a single page
it eats the horizon and expects us to march
carrying iron we never asked to forge
until our hands are worn to the bone
with the weight of defense
but tonight the war is far enough away
to be outside the glass of this temporary house
we have spent so many seasons trying to win
measuring our lives by the ground we could hold
against a culture that forgets the shape of a rib
but the victory was always a hollow kingdom
and the soldiers are so tired of the bleeding
they only want to lie down in the clover
so we build a sanctuary out of breath
a climate all our own in the dark
where the rules of the kingdom do not apply
and we can trade our weapons for the plain thing
of watching the water settle in a cup
you and i are the thieves of fire
reaching into the furnace of the world
to steal the sparks that keep the lung alive
not to burn down the palaces of stone
but to light the small hearths in the wilderness
where the beaten can gather and nurse their wounds
we do not need to fix the sky to find the morning
we only need to sit together in this room
until we find the language for what happened to us
and remember on our own
how to be warm
—lyra moon (stolen sparks, still water in a teacup)
june 10, 2026