Gentle are The ones

Steven REnkas || Fall 2025

There it sits above, the watchful eye at sky’s zenith, a grotesque chimera acting as judge, jury, and executioner. Gentle is the one who bears its gaze, neck bent towards judgment and verdict, silence infected by the sharpening of the axe.

They remain unafflicted, speaking their stories to unlistening ears, audience offering no applause and demanding no encore. Gentle are the minds beaten by such cruelty, the backbone labeling them villains, yet words hang naught over those who wish to be spineless.

Writhing and twisting as the wick comes to an end, from ashes to ashes, dust to dust, an ironic sequel to the tale of young Icarus. Gentle are the shoulders dusted by time deceased, soot and ash of painful memories, brushed off by those who wish to forget them.

Land empty and scorched, voices once stifled now birth from cracked lips and dry

throats, for Ouroboros has learned to spit out the tail. Gentle are the wrists scarred by shackles and chains. The warden has been lost to the wind, leaving none to name them prisoners.