Poetry is the marrow\'s voice,
speaking through bone and ache,
a naked pulse against the dark.
It unbuttons the spirit\'s coat—
raw, unraveling fragments of truth.
We skim the surface of living,
but poems plunge, unsparingly deep,
weaving flesh to the unseen air.
No mirrors, no shame or modest hands,
it is the scream before a name,
the thought unhelmed by reason\'s bridle,
the tender cut that sets us wholly bare.
Here, language breathes without its mask,
untamed by the leashes of time—
every word fisted from the throat,
unadulterated consciousness thrashing alive.