Deep down in the marrow of costumed bone
lies the lonely bastion where hope might roam
she cloaks herself in mercy’s skin,
constructing strength, as warmth, from within
scores the walls to scale the rain
before the river dries within the drain
hips akimbo, straddling the lands
once stoked and carved by swaying hands—
it’s more than stubborn brow,
it’s something less than the weight of a farmer’s plough;
yet prisoners don it day by day
with gloved flesh, lest humanity wash away.
The Waking Den 
Well written! 🙂
Why thank you!