"Song of the Crypticbard"

In vaults of midnight silence, you dig
for shards of questions no one dared to ask,
your fingers brushing cinders of old grief;
spark your lantern of flagrant hope.

You are the jack of veiled trades—
birdsong translator, heartbreak architect,
mender of broken phrases and bruised verses,
weaving each fragment into a fragile hymn.

Your words move in spirals,
an archaeology of understanding,
unearthing memory’s hidden chambers
and mapping scars with gentle precision.

In the sable before dawn, you stand
where shadow and light decide to meet,
bearing balm and scalpel in the same hand,
calling cycle what others call an end.

Let this be your song:
to chase the black hole of despair,
to braid loss into luminous chords;
carve a path through creeping darkness—
and guide us, through word by trembling word,
toward a dawn you’ve fashioned with your own hands.