Ash in the throat of the dawn, I kneel where the dead leaves gather. The wind does not mourn. It remembers. And I am weighed down with memory like a seed too full to sprout. Flesh softens beneath fungal tongue, My name written in wormtracks. I buried my past in bark-split silence— Now it grows teeth in the dark. You are not your ruin. You are not your rust. You are the lichen that drinks from bones, The roots that bloom in dust. Don’t fear the rot. Everything you are afraid to lose Is already buried, Composted, and decaying to loam. You are not the end— You are the becoming. Spiral through me, Branch within me, Feed the wound with sacred soil. What I was is now unmade, But what I become will rise from the mulch. Don’t fear the rot. Everything you are afraid to lose Is already buried, Composted, and decaying to loam. You are not the end— You are the becoming. I wear the crown of broken roots. I walk barefoot through ash. This grief is a harvest. This scream is a sprout. Don’t fear the rot. Everything you are afraid to lose Is already buried, Composted, and decaying to loam. You are not the end— You are the becoming. I wear the crown of broken roots. I walk barefoot through ash. This grief is a harvest. This scream is a sprout. You are not your ruin. You are not your rust. You are the lichen that drinks from bones, The roots that bloom in dust. Don’t fear the rot. Everything you are afraid to lose Is already buried, Composted, and decaying to loam. You are not the end— You are the becoming. Lay down. Let it take you. The soil has never judged you. Only grown from you. YOU ARE NOT THE END— YOU ARE THE BECOMING
