Stripping the Veneer

We carved out the first stone wall  

and stood trembling before the mountain.  

The light pressed through, casting jagged gaps,  

a language of shadows etched on our faces.  

Liquor was the mask but never the face,  

a ghostly curtain we learned to lift.  

What lived beneath was raw, untempered,  

teeth in the dark, gnashing at escape.  

To haul out the roots, hands must bleed,  

to touch blame, cradle it until it breaks.  

This fight is not to merely undo habits  

but to summon courage for wilder ghosts.  

Each condition is its own trembling beast,  

lurking between ribs, gnawing our sleep.  

Yet here we stand, palms open to hold it—  

to name the pain and let it die.