Those whose words are brutal,
carved thorns hidden within contrived gardens,
will one day reap the wounds they've caused,
weep our sorrows upon their own sleeves.
Those whose words are vulnerable,
primed by wisped slants of light pouring through an open portal,
will some day know the softened silk they have inspired,
the moist whispers engendered by their constant murmurs.
Leaves curl beneath the onslaught of a sudden storm,
swift ascents of laughter emboldened by the coming rain.
We are nascent within this womb, arching
toward the sky. We seek
these tender mythologies
pastel with courageous song.