I am the knife
And the wound,
And the salt,
The nerve that flinches,
The cry that echoes,
threaded through the silence.
I am the shadow carved by a winter sun,
A name spoken with a ghost’s tongue
and forgotten.
I am the bloom of the yucca,
Wounded—
and still reaching for the sky.
I am the hunger of wolves beneath a frozen moon,
The smoke that curls from burned bridges,
The quiet, feral thing that lives in the ruins.
I am the question that silence asks,
The answer hidden in the rootwork of the bone,
A call flung toward the faceless sky,
I am the breaking,
And the breaking open.
// Rootwork of the Bone
