Veins of silver carve the canopy, Each leaf weeps beneath morning’s hush. No flame but the rain’s low hymn, No god but the hunger of roots. Ash breath on my tongue, Pine-blood in my throat, The sun does not rise— It wounds the sky open, Slow and sacred. I kneel in the rot of all I once loved, My hands bruised by thorns I dared to name. Moss drinks my silence like wine, And the soil asks for nothing in return. Let the daylight take its time— There is no rush to remember No warmth that isn’t stolen No light that doesn’t drip like sap From the wounded bark of time. Rainborne light — devour me whole…… Crown me in fog, cloak me in soil… I am the fern curled in mourning…… I am the branch that breaks in bloom! I watched the sunrise as if it might forgive me. It did not. It simply shone Through the corpse of the night, Like truth through bone. Rainborne light — devour me whole…… Crown me in fog, cloak me in soil… I am the fern curled in mourning…… I am the branch that breaks in bloom! Worms stir beneath the roots, Their slow prayers writ in loam. I offer my breath to the moss, And vanish Into the morning.
