Beneath this ink lie teeth and vows,
ribs of tales,
brittle and time-cleaned bone.
Here, words are an ossuary
of brows,
and knuckles,
knotted prayers that never dream.
I write with marrow.
Let the page decay.
Let tongues recall what lips
were taught to spare.
Each word is flint;
what burns shall stay —
a ghost that leaves its fingerprints
in air.
There is no holy here,
no clean descent,
only ash and root,
and something sharp with wings.
You came for light?
Then watch how dark is bent
to frame the place where light
first learns its rings.
So walk between these letters,
grave and thin.
When a story dies,
that is where we begin.
