Bury me deep in the mouth of the oak, Where silence writhes and the tendrils choke. No priest, no flame—only fungal breath, Only the lull of earthen death. I walked the hollow root alone, With jawbone charm and worm-picked bone. The soil sang of what must fall— The end is birth. The rot is all. Ash to root, blood to bloom, Grief carved slow in a cradle of gloom. Beneath your bark, I lose my name— Feed the dirt. Become the flame. O Spiral deep, O Root undone, Take this flesh into the sunless drum. Worm-lords chant in the marrowed night, A hymn to the mold, the dark, the rot. I crowned myself in nettle and thorn, A king of decay, a beast reborn. My prayer: a breath in a compost heap, My gospel: the roots that never sleep. “Let what is living crumble, Let what is dead take root, Let grief ferment in the gut of the world.” O Spiral deep, O Root undone, Take this flesh into the sunless drum. Worm-lords chant in the marrowed night, A hymn to the mold, the dark, the rot. Beneath the rot, I rise unseen— A seed of ash, a god unclean.
