GENESIS
- Aug 25, 2025
- 1 min read
By Veris Marock
I’m in love with dead worlds,
desolate scapes of stone and ruin
aching to be heard, screaming in songs
that ring silent in the void.
A vine strangles the bricks
the mortar cracks, crumbles.
No words.
No words.
I wonder, amid this broken world
if, when my eggshell cracks
will I wear, with pride,
the world I broke to be born?
Will I shudder with his bones
and hear him whimper in my breast?
Will I love with his body
and feel him mewl in my belly?
Will these hands make art
that he tries to speak through
as I have done, his?
Or will he be a dead world,
a frigid silent satellite
in orbit of my vines
and climbing things.
I’m in love with dead worlds
with all they have been
and all that they could be.
So I hope that when I’m born
the world I shed
will learn to forgive me