Ode to the Knight of Broken Cups

i wake to the taste of salt on my lips,
not from the sea, but from tears unsipped—
wine once rich now puddled in the dirt,
days i can’t reclaim, nights i can’t convert.

the tide has long fled these weary shores,
leaving my chest heavy, the grit in it coarse;
love’s harbor lies shattered, its lantern dim,
and the sea’s old hymn has forgotten to sing.

yet clouds, though cruel, grow thin in time;
even storms must yield to a patient sky.
the waves will return, slow and sure,
to fill this vessel i feared impure.

and teach me still, with the gentlest hand,
that even cracked glass can carry the sand,
that fractures can hold what the whole once knew,
and the heart can bear more when it’s broken through.

so i guard my heart with a quiet shield,
not to banish the world, but to let it yield
a silence wide enough for wounds to heal,
for a soul to breathe, and a heart to feel.

and when the dust of grief lies still,
when the horizon bends to my will,
i will ride again with the cup in my hand,
its lines a map of the battles i’ve spanned.

this i tell myself, for i bear my own name,
the knight of broken cups, yet unashamed.
learning—slowly, stubbornly—to reclaim my part,
and pour all my love in the well of my own heart.