It's Still Life

18 of 27 Mirebright – The Poem – The Unaccounted-For

I. The Glint
Not a star —
but a false dawn where hope dies,
a light that clings to an unrepentant cheek
like a child’s kiss on a rusted blade.
You hope anyway.
You love despite.

Mirebright is whispered even when no one’s listening.

II. The Hollow Chest
Compassion aches here —
not because it’s wasted,
but because its echo
cannot echo back.

You offer your hand.
They want your fingerprints.
You offer your name.
They wear it like a borrowed coat.

III. The Mistake
It is not foolishness —
it is love’s reckless arithmetic:
mercy minus memory,
warmth divided by void,
forgiveness multiplied.
The sum is always salted gold—
a currency only the sky understands.

IV. The Flame
It does not burn clean.
It flickers in the mud —
it’s a stubborn, sodden light
that refuses to drown.
And the question lingers on a leafless breath:
“Why feed a fire that cannot warm you?”
but the answer is cupped in your hands,
in the mud.

V. The Coin
Too worn to spend,
too precious to abandon.
You kneel anyway,
digging through the dark
for a glint that owes you nothing.

This is the covenant:
Hope is not an investment.
It is an altar.

VI. The Gifts Left Behind
A pebble warm from a pocket.
A rusted button.
A broken watch.
A sack of cracked hazelnuts she never planted,
but still sprouted roots in a child’s thanks.
This is not charity.
This is how the world says: “I saw you.”

VII. The Reveal
Let the undeserving take.
Let the mud keep your gold.
Let your hands stay open.
Mirebright is not for them—
it is for you:
the one who still believes
in light that does not need to earn its name.

Mirebright is the flame that feeds.
And you are the keeper of the kindling.