Mother of Grace

Mother of Grace

Visions command this frail sphere:
Stunned, cursed, or bemused,
Soldiers must face their battles,
Clutching at banners and cheers.

Groping, yet seeking dimly,
Wincing and weaving,
The trap of chains lingers near.
Cradling the child she bore,

The mother of grace perceives
Tempests ahead for her young.
Soul will confront and endure.
She’ll shield and steer,

Yet not stay clasped forever.
Each child will wield a voice,
Fearless and brash, but blindly
Lost in their ruinous choice.

The mother of grace bestowed
No flaw—they carved
Their grim roads through chambers
Of gloom where insight

Fades to dust. Each loss
Drives a jagged spike, struck
By mallets shaped in the mire
Of sorrow. Each greedy plea

Blooms in the thick dark,
Where care goes to rot.
The mother of grace molds craft
From fragments of rust. Ash

Will cloak the tomes of ice
Where truth poses riddles still.