Ashes of Doubt
In the dim of dwindling daylights, where shadows merge to reign,
Lies a fortress forged in silence from the ashes of his pain.
A black man stands at a crossroads, under burdens heavy wrought,
With a heart encased in armor from the battles he has fought.
Through the alleys of his memories, where mistrust lays thick as thieves,
Every smile masks a dagger; every gesture he perceives
As a ploy wrapped in velvet, as a wolf in gentle guise,
In the echoes of his footsteps, trust is a currency that dies.
His eyes flicker stories of promises turned to dust,
Of kinships cracked by betrayal, and in this world, it is unjust.
He learns to dance with solitude, his shadow as his pair,
Finding rhythm in the silence, solace in the thinning air.
A father’s stern warning, a mother’s tender care,
Lost to time’s relentless march, leaving heartstrings bare.
Love—a word so foreign—it stirs but ashes grey,
In the heart of his affections, where fires dare not stay.
Each whisper in the darkness of intimacy’s sweet bloom,
The creeping ivy of an ever-present gloom chokes it.
How can he surrender, bare his soul to another’s hold,
When every past embrace felt like winter, harsh and cold?
Yet, in the core of his being, beneath the doubts that loudly shout,
There lies a quivering notion that hope is not yet out.
Could there be a hand to hold that shakes not his core,
But plants seeds of trust anew and leads him back to shore?
Ashes of doubt, a relentless, smoldering pyre,
A black man’s heart, a complex, tender tire.
Each beat a question of whether to let the barriers down,
To find in the rubble of pain a jewel in the crown.
–Inkwell Penumbra
