Falling to the Earth
Falling
to the earth,
I know—
it is time
for me to be me.
The ground opens,
a cold mouth of silence,
waiting
to swallow
or cradle.
I touch the dirt
and wonder:
should I plant myself here,
or will the storm
rip every root from me,
leaving nothing
but hollow earth?
Shadows gather in the soil,
closing in like teeth.
They begin their chant,
low and endless:
nothing grows here.
nothing lasts.
nothing belongs.
The words circle me,
slither through the cracks,
press into my skin.
You will not rise.
You will not bloom.
You will not be remembered.
The chorus thickens,
voices overlapping,
a dark lullaby:
rot, little seed.
sleep in the dirt.
forget the sun.
forget the sky.
forget yourself.
I press my hands to the soil,
but the whispers crawl deeper,
rooting in my bones.
Yet beneath their hunger,
a heavier voice stirs—
the earth itself,
not cruel,
but unflinching:
I see what you want.
I will hold you.
But the holding
may hurt.
I tremble at its weight.
Will you be there for me
when the rains come black,
when stems are broken,
when all I reach for
splinters in my hand?
The world is a storm,
merciless.
It does not wait for seeds.
It tears.
It takes.
It leaves no shelter
but the grave.
The chorus returns, louder now,
folding into the bones of night:
nothing grows here.
nothing lasts.
nothing belongs.
They press like winter.
They press like knives.
Still—
I press myself down,
deep into the silence.
If I rot,
I will rot as me.
The chorus claws,
rot, little seed,
sleep, forget, die.
But something small—stubborn, stubborn—
answers anyway:
a pulse beneath the ash,
a tremor in the hush.
And if, by some mercy,
the sky cracks open,
let the smallest green flicker
rise from my bones,
a thin, fierce whisper—
that even in ruin,
even with the chorus around my throat,
I tried
to grow.
Copyright ©
Lady Dra
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