Mother Of Ash And Bloom

Dona walked through halls where light once kissed the stone,

A castle proud, now fallen and alone.

Each room recalls what she allowed to decay,

Skies once bright now churn in ashen gray.

She thought desire could guard what once was hers,

Yet all she built now smolders and blurs.

She kissed the venom,

She drank the storm,

Pretended the chaos

could keep her warm,

While Solan held his vigil,

constant yet unseen—

Like stars that burn

beneath daylight’s sheen.

Medusa eyes, galaxies of desire—

They razed the ramparts, salted hearts with fire.

The Whirlwind came, a vixen spun from storm;

She clasped Dona’s wrists and shaped her to form.

Dona danced in their blaze, sought to match their flame,

Unknowing the cost of such a dark game.

She lit the pyre,

enthroned her pain,

And watched the sky

weep soot and rain.

Still Solan held

the fragile line,

Even as the world

misaligned.

All-mother’s hands, worn thin, reached through fire

To teach her songs that rose from smoky lyre.

Dona watched embers seep through tightened fists—

each bridge she loved took light beneath her wrists.

Now ashes whisper where All-mother’s guidance fell,

And thorned regrets grow where her kindness dwelled.

Dona’s hands, a beacon

in the storm’s cruel wake,

Taught what she needed

but gave more than she’d take.

The All-mother’s warmth remains,

a ghost that cannot stay.

Dona walks alone,

yet hears her in the fray.

Dona walks these ruins now with tempered eyes.

Once smoldering stones, now bloomed roses rise.

The thorns she planted weave through every bed—

each bloom a truth that grew from what she bled.

The haunted halls still echo voices past;

In this garden, Dona walks unbound at last.

She tried to mend the sky

with shattered thread,

But Solan embraced

the ruins instead.

“This child you bear

is ours to raise—

Together, stronger

through the blaze.”

Through ruin, shadow, loss, and pain,

She’s walked these halls, and bloom has grown from flame.

The child who laughs, bright blossom from the thorn—

a life remade from ashes once forlorn.

She cradles ruin; from its embers rise

the bloom that fire could never disguise.

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"Mother of Ash and Bloom" reflects on hitting rock bottom, confronting the chaos, and finding the strength to grow from it. This poem takes a look at accountability, transformation, and learning to be a better person through failures.