[This page contains poems from the book The Crown of Glass. To read the full book, pre-order before August 15th. May contain spoilers.]

Lost Inside My Mind
by Patrick Granger 

The wind is full of whispers,
not words, but shapes that ache.
I feel them curl behind my ears,
slipping through cracks in thought.
My name is written in the dirt,
but I don’t remember writing it. 

Am I lost inside my mind?

The stars won't look away from me,
hung too low, breathing slow.
One blink and they multiply,
like mirrors left to rot in heat.
They shimmer like her wedding dress,
but colder, crueler, false. 

Am I lost inside my mind?

Her voice plays on the phone,
faint and trembling through static.
I hold the receiver like a wound,
hoping for a breath that’s real.
But all I get is humming now,
and laughter that sounds like mine. 

Am I lost inside my mind?

I’ve carved circles in the sand,
around a fire that won't stay lit.
The smoke dances in her shape,
then crumbles into ash and bone.
I try to cry but salt won’t come,
only dust and a whisper of her name. 

Am I lost inside my mind?

My shadow stretches wrong these days,
reaches places I haven't gone.
The trees bend down to listen close,
to secrets I didn't know I kept.
Each step feels heavier than time,
like walking through someone else's dream. 

Am I lost inside my mind?

The sky is glass, and cracking fast,
a thousand stars behind the break.
I stare until I feel it move,
until the light begins to burn.
She’s near, I know she has to be,
but even her name won't stay. 

Am I lost inside my mind?

In the Hollow
by Helena Winscott 

The trees stretch tall, their limbs undone,
The ground beneath a hollow hum,
Where roots have whispered truths unsaid,
And shadows lean on paths long fled. 

The wind speaks low, a twisted sound,
It knows the bones beneath the ground.
It calls me in with words unkind,
To leave the light, to leave the mind. 

The night is thick, the sky hangs still,
A chorus hums against my will.
I follow where the darkness creeps,
Where silence sinks and never sleeps. 

A flicker, just a shifting trace,
A sound that trembles, leaves no face.
The shadows twist with thoughts too deep,
Where all I’ve known is left to weep. 

The trees now speak, a voice unknown,
It calls my name, but not my own.
The wind, it carries something more
The weight of things that I ignore. 

I follow, lost, where few have gone,
Where even time begins to spawn.
And deeper still, where eyes may roam,
The woods have found me, and made me home. 

— H.

RITUAL from The Tome of Thorns

To speak with what was lost,
seek stone where rivers lose their names.
Where dusk forgets what light once meant,
and patience wears its skin in flames.
There lies the altar not yet named,
and there, the voice you seek may bloom,
but only if the sacrifice
recalls her shadow in the womb. 

The doll has always known.
It waits for hands that ache to give.
Its thread is made from what you loved,|
and stitched with vows you swore would live.
To bring her back, it must be broken,
cracked to spill what sleeps inside.
Lay down what was never yours.
and what you seek will return where silence died.