Emerald Rust

Green glass in my hands. Crack light on my skin. Whispered words I

barely know. Still I say them again. Candles burning straight to ash.

Shadows climbing the walls. Every promise tastes like rust. But I keep

making the calls. How long can a heart keep kneeling? A stone that

never moves. If silence is the only answer, what am I supposed to prove?

This is my emerald prayer, cutting the dark like a flare. When will it

rise? Will it tear through the night? Will anyone, anyone hear?

Where are the emerald knights bleeding through unending fights? When will the