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A recorded reading of “Roots of Becoming”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Something ancient stirs beneath my skin, a whisper buried in bone, where time has cracked like weathered clay and left me open to the sky. From my back, the branches rise— twisting upward, reaching blind, aching for a place I do not know. They do not ask permission; they bloom in silence, fed by embers of an unseen hunger. Once, I was only flesh, sealed and certain, but now I am something more, or something less— a vessel of unfinished growth, a husk in quiet rupture. The planets watch, unblinking, small gods of stillness, orbiting my sorrow. But I do not bow. I simply stand, letting the roots take their claim, letting the fire carve its path, becoming the thing I cannot name.
Lyrics
(Something ancient stirs beneath my skin…) A whisper buried in bone, Where time has cracked like weathered clay, And left me open to the sky. From my back, the branches rise, Twisting upward, reaching blind. Aching for a place I do not know— They do not ask permission. (Once, I was only flesh—sealed, certain…) But now I am something more, Or something less. A vessel of unfinished growth, A husk in quiet rupture. They bloom in silence, Fed by embers of an unseen hunger. The planets watch, unblinking, Small gods of stillness, orbiting my sorrow. But I do not bow. I simply stand. Letting the roots take their claim, Letting the fire carve its path. (Once, I was only flesh—sealed, certain…) But now I am something more, Or something less. A vessel of unfinished growth, A husk in quiet rupture. Becoming the thing I cannot name…
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