Hollow Branches - Breath Beneath Root and Stone

Whispers stir in the hollow oak maw, Voice of the old one—gnarled and raw. The stones remember, the river prays, And blood sings true in the lichen haze. I kneel to no god wrought by man— I crawl through moss with dirt-scarred hands. Each leaf, a blade. Each crow, a rite. Each breath, the howl of feral night. We are not alone. We never were. Every stone dreams. Every root speaks. Every breath echoes the first. Spirit in bark, spirit in bone, Flesh of the land, not flesh alone. Eyes in the dark, breathing unseen— I worship the world in the spaces between. The wind gnaws sermons in the ash, Clawed roots chant the burial mass. The hunt is sacred, the feast a vow, The soul of beast still walks the bough. No death is clean, no end is still— We return through hunger, claw, and icy chill. Spirit in bark, spirit in bone, Flesh of the land, not flesh alone. Eyes in the dark, breathing unseen— I worship the world in the spaces between. They called them “dead things.” I called them kin. Every shadow in the tree-line Is a face I’ve seen within. The flame bows low before the hare, The stars give names I do not dare. I wear no crown, I bear no lie— Only bark and blood and the blackened sky. We are not alone. We never were. Every stone dreams. Every root speaks. Every breath echoes the first.