The Silmarils

In star‑wrought crystal burned a living fire,
A light unbroken since the world was young.
No forge but spirit shaped that secret pyre,
No hand but one from whom all songs are sprung.

They shone like prayers sealed in a holy stone,
Too pure for oath or grief to hold or bind.
Yet hearts were stirred, and kingdoms overthrown,
For beauty fierce enough to unmake mind.

Still in the dark, their hidden radiance gleams—
One in the sea, one in the deathless sky,
One in the earth where sorrow folds its dreams,
Each guarded now by silence none defy.

So let their light remain beyond all will—
A shrine of fire the world remembers still.

Lilith at the Threshold

The moon invents my skin in borrowed light,
a silver language only shadows speak;
through candle smoke, I move—a pulse of night,
too soft for sin, too knowing to be meek.

The wind adores the hollow of my throat,
each breath a charm, each sigh a quiet snare;
desire drifts like ashes from a note
half-sung, half-spelled, that shimmers in the air.

No prayer can hold me, no name can define,
I bloom where silence trembles into ache;
your dream will wake with whispers that are mine,
and find the dark still fragrant from my wake.

For I am night unbound, and you, the flame—
each time you speak my name, you feed the same.