The Curse

Once, wind.

Once, river.

Once, trembling leaves in a rhythm too vast to hear.

Once, part of the pulse,

the hum of the earth,

moving without asking why.

The silence—shattered.

A gaze lifted beyond the trees,

palms open, waiting for answers that never come,

fire kindled inside the chest.

Oh, how it burns.

How it burns.

The deer does not mourn the dying leaf.

The wolf does not curse the moon.

But this mind—

this mind weeps for what has not yet fallen.

This mind begs the sky for answers

it was never meant to give.

A seed—swallowed.

Small. Sharp. Restless.

Burrowed deep—

roots threading through marrow,

tendrils tightening around bone.

It suffocates.

The trees do not question their roots.

The rivers do not ask where they end.

But this mind—

this mind tangled.

Branches twisting,

clawing,

never still.

Never sated.

The deeper it grows, the tighter it coils.

Threading through the ribs, pulling them apart,

hunger gnawing at the hollow.

It reaches and reaches—

to no avail.

Ache—unrelenting.

Every bloom bears thorns.

Every thorn draws blood.

Fire and famine,

root and ruin,

a wound never meant to close.

And so it climbs.

And so it aches.

A creature of sorrow.

A creature of longing.

Always reaching—

never holding