The Turning of the Longest Night

The longest night descends with solemn grace,
A velvet hush that crowns the waiting earth.
The sun withdraws, yet leaves a tender trace,
A promise faint of dawn’s returning birth.

The stars burn bright upon the frosted air,
As if to guard the world in silver flame.
The trees stand still, in silhouettes laid bare,
And whisper ancient songs without a name.

Yet in this depth of shadow, light is sown—
A spark that stirs beneath the frozen seam.
For even darkness cannot claim the throne
When solstice wakes the year from winter’s dream.

So let the night be long, the silence deep—
For in its heart, the rising sun shall sleep.

Galadriel’s Mirror

A silver basin holds the forest’s breath,
Its waters whisper futures yet unknown.
They show both life and shadow, love and death,
A thousand paths the heart may call its own.

The hobbit sees his homeland torn and scarred,
The wizard’s eye aflame upon the sky.
Yet choice remains, though visions may be marred—
The Mirror speaks, but never tells a lie.

Galadriel stands, a flame of light and will,
Her hand outstretched, yet steady in her grace.
She passes by the Ring, though time is still,
And leaves its fire to burn in Sauron’s face.

So waters shine, both perilous and clear—
The soul revealed in Galadriel’s Mirror.

The Bloom Beneath the Bruise

Answer to Watch “The Rose” by Bette Midler on YouTube

Some say love is just a fever—
a flush of want, a reckless ache.
Some say love is sharp and clever,
a blade that learns which vows to break.

I say love’s a slow seduction,
a thorn that hums beneath the skin,
a bloom that drinks from contradiction,
soft petals wrapped in secret sin.

It waits beneath the frost and silence,
it stirs when no one dares to speak,
it dances in the mouth of violence,
it blossoms where the body’s weak.

And when the night is long and hollow,
and touch feels like a distant ghost,
remember: even wounds can swallow
the light we crave, the heat we host.

So plant your heart in dirt and daring,
let rain baptize what shame has burned—
the bloom beneath the bruise is bearing
a love that’s raw, and real, and earned.