Nothing is louder than silence,
In a room, nearly empty save for,
The desk with fire in a glass,
And your own attempt at resilience.

What secrets does the amber keep?
An ugly truth that mars the soul?
Or perhaps a lie? Your only warmth,
So why is it that you do not weep?

What fire burns within your soul?
That you fuel so religiously,
What desires are out of reach,
That you need this to feel whole?

Nothing is quieter than the cost,
Of the things you've seen and done,
And as you think of things long gone,
You drink the comfort for the lost.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Chronos, in the year 596 AF.