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$III. The Marrow Throne They fed me silence, thin as broth, And called it virtue, called it cloth. But hunger taught the hollow bone To hollow out a deeper throne. I swallowed every withheld word, Let them ferment where none were heard. The rot became a royal mead— Now every sip reminds me: bleed. They stripped the marrow, thought me spent, A brittle flute the wind would bend. Instead I learned the song of cracks, The music only ruin makes. From splintered shafts and broken knees I raised a scepter no one sees— A living staff of blackened vein That pulses with unburied rain. No longer begging at their gate, I walk the charnel paths I make. The night is loom, the dark my thread; I weave the shroud that wraps the dead And wear it as a sovereign cloak, A second skin of ash and smoke. Let prophets curse the things I’ve done— Their heaven ends where I’ve begun. I call the marrow to awake, To climb the spine and seize the snake. I call the fracture to be gate, The wound to open, wide and great. I call the quiet in the grave To rise and claim the life it gave. Let every scattered piece align: The bone is born. The bone is mine.$
III. The Marrow Throne They fed me silence, thin as broth, And called it virtue, called it cloth. But hunger taught the hollow bone To hollow out a deeper throne. I swallowed every withheld word, Let them ferment where none were heard. The rot became a royal mead— Now every sip reminds me: bleed. They stripped the marrow, thought me spent, A brittle flute the wind would bend. Instead I learned the song of cracks, The music only ruin makes. From splintered shafts and broken knees I raised a scepter no one sees— A living staff of blackened vein That pulses with unburied rain. No longer begging at their gate, I walk the charnel paths I make. The night is loom, the dark my thread; I weave the shroud that wraps the dead And wear it as a sovereign cloak, A second skin of ash and smoke. Let prophets curse the things I’ve done— Their heaven ends where I’ve begun. I call the marrow to awake, To climb the spine and seize the snake. I call the fracture to be gate, The wound to open, wide and great. I call the quiet in the grave To rise and claim the life it gave. Let every scattered piece align: The bone is born. The bone is mine.

$IV. The Graveyard Choir They thought the line had ended clean, A severed root beneath the green. But every grave they tried to seal Still whispered through the turning wheel. I walk the furrows of their shame, Where elder bones forget their name— A quiet ledger carved in chalk, A debt of silence none could talk. Whose marrow threads these hollow halls? Whose fracture answers when I call? I kneel among the unmarked stones, And press my ear against their moans. The mothers who were never heard, The fathers broken, undeterred— They rise as one unbroken vein, A river dark with ancient rain. I light the blackthorn at their feet, A circle drawn in blood and peat. No gentle hymn, no candle’s grace— I summon them with splintered face. “Awake,” I breathe into the loam, “Remember every stolen home. The whip, the veil, the salted field— All payment now demands its yield.” They answer not in voice but quake, The soil splits, the old bones wake. A chorus cold and vast unfurls, A parliament of shattered girls, Of silenced sons and mothers burned, Of lineages that never turned. They do not beg. They do not plead. They pour their hunger into me. I am the gate. I am the key. The fracture blooms into an army. No longer one, but woven tight— A sovereign dressed in endless night. The past is not a chain I wear; It is the marrow in my stare. Let every scattered piece align: The dead are risen. The dead are mine.$
IV. The Graveyard Choir They thought the line had ended clean, A severed root beneath the green. But every grave they tried to seal Still whispered through the turning wheel. I walk the furrows of their shame, Where elder bones forget their name— A quiet ledger carved in chalk, A debt of silence none could talk. Whose marrow threads these hollow halls? Whose fracture answers when I call? I kneel among the unmarked stones, And press my ear against their moans. The mothers who were never heard, The fathers broken, undeterred— They rise as one unbroken vein, A river dark with ancient rain. I light the blackthorn at their feet, A circle drawn in blood and peat. No gentle hymn, no candle’s grace— I summon them with splintered face. “Awake,” I breathe into the loam, “Remember every stolen home. The whip, the veil, the salted field— All payment now demands its yield.” They answer not in voice but quake, The soil splits, the old bones wake. A chorus cold and vast unfurls, A parliament of shattered girls, Of silenced sons and mothers burned, Of lineages that never turned. They do not beg. They do not plead. They pour their hunger into me. I am the gate. I am the key. The fracture blooms into an army. No longer one, but woven tight— A sovereign dressed in endless night. The past is not a chain I wear; It is the marrow in my stare. Let every scattered piece align: The dead are risen. The dead are mine.

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@tramsacsuckhoe33: viên uống #tramsacsuckhoe33 #caotraxanh #vienuong

Trạm Sạc Sức Khỏe

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Saturday 12 September 2026 20:03:18 GMT

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