We no longer dream in color. The nights hum through hollow marrow, a quiet static threading our veins, the towers blinking blind into the sleepless dark.
Memory loosens its silver threads, falling like mist from forgetting hands. We speak in glass and ghost-light, we touch through the ache of distant signals, our voices thin as breath between wires.
The air is heavy with silence, the kind that forgets how to weep. Our hands move in restless patterns, our feet tread broken circles, our eyes grow bright with borrowed glow.
Beneath the sleeping cities, the soil breathes, patient as stone, slow as the turning sea. It cradles the songs we left behind, the seeds we lost, the roots we buried without names.
Through cracks in the weary stone, a green blade reaches, trembling, frail as breath, fierce as stars, a single note in the deafened earth.
The rivers remember the way. The roots murmur in their deep tongue. The wind hums old hymns across abandoned fields. The rain still sings the low song of home.
Somewhere, in the hush between heartbeats, a forgotten melody stirs, a fragment of wonder still warm with life, a thread of dawn stitched into the endless dusk.
One day a hand will open, cupping water like prayer. One day a voice will break the silence, naming the flowers with aching reverence.
The gardens will not ask for penance. The rivers will not speak of betrayal. They will open themselves without bitterness, offering green breath, offering the slow gift of remembering.
And wonder, slow and halting, will slip back into the marrow, seeding the hollow places with light, waking the dreaming earth inside us.
We will learn again to sing to the stones, to listen to the rivers, to walk barefoot through the breathing grass, to speak in the old, true tongue of living.
Jonny Writes 