[Verse 1] Walking the fractures of the deep forest— cloak heavy with bitter dust of inevitability, satchel swinging like a pendulum. Static hum through the bark, the frozen dirt translating what’s left of my frozen meat when the cold bites down. The trees here are older than grief, their roots drinking from the same dark pool where the dead forget their names. [Verse 2] Feeding a possum bones in the bitter cold— two ghosts on the same pilgrimage to nowhere. Its eyes are wet marbles, reflecting nothing. My hands are cracked parchment, scribbling the same prayer over and over in a language the forest wrote and I’ve forgotten how to read. [Verse 3] The static hum is a hymn now— the only one that matters. Through the bark, through the frozen dirt, it sings of endings that never quite arrive, of winters that outlive the bones they bury beneath the frost. My frozen meat still carries the echo of a pulse, but the forest is patient. [Chorus] Back wood death priest— chanting through a mouthful of splinters. The bitter dust coats my tongue, and the trees lean in to listen. Two ghosts, one pilgrimage— the possum leads, I follow. Static hum, static hum— the only prayer left when the cold bites down. [Bridge] The possum knows the way— stillness that isn’t surrender, just a pause between heartbeats in a place where the dead outnumber the living. Its bones are the map, its silence the instruction. I am the echo of a man who once knew how to pray.
