Moon at Half Past Noon

She stitches wool with frost-bit hands,
A shroud of yarn for barren lands.
Potatoes boil, his bitter balm,
A ghost of comfort, frail and calm.
Yet he—the weight that crushed her breath—
Wove her ruin, thread by death,
His grip, once warm, now splintered ice,
Flayed her years in sacrifice.

We are her, skin scraped by stone,
Bent beneath a world unknown.
The whip’s disguised as lover’s arm,
A cradle lined with quiet harm.
In fields we toil, in rooms we shrink,
The air grows thick with chains we link—
A bruise blooms soft, a shadow’s jest,
We cradle wolves against our chest.
Their boots grind slow, their smiles bite,
We bleed in peace, we dim our light.
Part II: Awakening at the Peak
Pain splits wide, a thunder’s peal,
The haze recoils, the numb turns real.
Eyes snap open, lungs claw air,
A scream half-born, a ragged prayer.
No sound escapes—just ash, just dust,
A throat of rust, a tongue of trust.
Inside, it churns, a molten seed,
A howl that fights to break, to bleed.
We face the mirror, cracked and bare,
Mouth “I am here” through gritted stare—
The voice creeps out, a fractured call,
Stuttering life against the fall.

Words lurch free, all thorns, no silk,
A rasp of truth in curdled milk.
“I rot—‘I’ve borne this long, I’ll bear it still,’”
We spit it out, no grace, no frill—
The raw spills hot, a butcher’s blade,
A wound unstitched, a debt unpaid.
Oppression glares, its teeth laid bare,
We choke its name through broken air—
No hymn, no plea, just gut and grime,
A shout that claws through sludge of time.
It’s ours, this cry, rough-hewn, unmade,
A blade of sound that won’t degrade.

Her voice ignites, a spark, a flare,
Ours answer back through trembling air—
Yours keens high, mine growls low,
Hers cuts deep, yet on we go.
Pain wears masks—black, gold, or gray—
But carves us all the selfsame way.
We chant, we weave, a rising swell,
A tide of tongues that breaks the spell—
For her, for us, the call ascends,
Till justice wakes, till silence bends.