Hollow Branches - Throat of The Threshold

I walk the line where breath turns brittle, Veil-split dusk in marrow’s cradle. Whispers slip from jawbone hollows, I am the hush that the dying follow. Ash-slick hands, cradle the cold, Guide the soul where silence folds. Candles gutter in the breathless dark, I sing the rot with a voice of bark. Sandalwood smoke and soil-stained palms, Chants rise low in funeral psalms. I peel the names from the tongue of the dead, Sow them in moss where the shadows are fed. I do not mourn, I do not plead— I tend the wound that longs to bleed. I peel the names from the tongue of the dead, Sow them in moss and shepherd the souls of those that can no longer mend I do not close the eyes—I open the gate. I do not fear the end—I carry its weight. Bearer of the last exhale, soul’s undoing thread, I am a death doula to the un-being—the holy of the dead. Beneath the root, in cradle of loam, I speak the words that unmake home. Not savior, not reaper—I am the limb That steadies the soul as it slips from the skin. I do not mourn, I do not plead— I tend the wound that longs to bleed. I peel the names from the tongue of the dead, Sow them in moss and shepherd the souls of those that can no longer mend I do not close the eyes—I open the gate. I do not fear the end—I carry its weight. Bearer of the last exhale, soul’s undoing thread, I am a death doula to the un-being—the holy of the dead. I do not close the eyes—I open the gate. I do not fear the end—I carry its weight. Bearer of the last exhale, soul’s undoing thread, I am a death doula to the un-being Close your eyes. Feel the hush between the leaves. It’s time to rest— the earth remembers everything.