Where Our Skeletons Lay

I woke from a long sleep
into a room where ideas floated.
We could have stayed there,
no clocks, no rush—
breathing with the mind
like it was a second set of lungs.

Color was never a compass,
just a lens—
and every lens tells the truth
to the eye that wears it.
We live inside the moment,
half-hidden, half-becoming,
learning the strange mercy of a past
that finally stops asking us to hide.

They said our skeletons
would rattle forever in a closet.
We went back to the forest
and found the bones leaf-soft,
already turning into soil.
Yes, the brain can feel like a fortress—
but it’s also a gate we can unlatch.
Hate thins when light gets in.
Listening is the match.
The room is what it lights.

We keep returning to those trees
because they sound like us.
Feelings and words braid there—
wind in the canopy,
bark answering bark.
Each step we take
plants a small story.

So we walk without shame,
done burying what we were told to hide.
The path remembers our feet.
The leaves make space.
And where our skeletons once lay,
the understory is green—
soft, alive, opening.