Bone Storm
We are the ones beneath the rug.
Entombed, still breathing.
Our minds burn.
The world believes us dead.
We shout,
but they do not hear.
They cheer their tyrants:
bright flesh, tin crowns,
laughter ringing over graves.
Their thrones are built on bodies.
Their mirrors shine with lies.
We would not wear their masks.
We would not sharpen kindness into a blade.
We would not dance their fool’s dance.
So they sealed our mouths.
Buried us beneath the boards.
Good. Leave us underground.
The dark keeps memory.
The buried keep reckoning.
Silence is not consent.
It is the storm gathering breath.
We are patient bone.
We are cold coal.
We are kept ember.
We are the ocean.
the fire.
the storm.
the reckoning.
When we rise,
mountains stagger.
The sky tears.
The dead march with us,
drums beating in their ribs.
Monuments melt to slag.
Crowns split to dust.
The air clears,
The rivers run pure.
The world they built will crumble.
The hidden world,
the waiting world,
will stand revealed.
Bone storm.
Bone storm rising.
Bone storm rising unbound.
