Hollow Branches - Mire of The Mother

Crawl, crawl back to the cradle, Where your name was first swallowed by mud. Tear out the tongue that begged for heaven— The roots do not care for your gods. Sink, slowly— Let the bones unlearn the burden of uprightness. The deeper you rot, The closer she draws. The womb is a well and it stinks of the truth— Not birth, but undoing, A liquefied prayer in the mouth of the marsh, Where the mother remembers your ruin. I have kissed the teeth of carrion grace. I have held the last breath like a candle. I have named the writhing beneath the soil And welcomed it home in my marrow. Flesh is not sacred. Grief is not sin. Drown in the mire And begin again. Let your scream be swallowed in peat. Let your thoughts be softened with lichen. Let your form be feasted upon by beetles— For that is the gospel of healing. No altar. No fire. No light at the end. Just the slow, sacred hush Of being unmade and loved anyway.