runic pumice
I watch them, gathered under stars that pulse,
hands to hearts, and eyes that drink the sky,
their bodies tethered to the ground, yet free.
As glowing tendrils rise from soil and stone,
a question hums, a song within their blood—
Who am I, and what name shall I wear?
The moment comes: each child, a world of stars,
steps into a stone circle; their skins begin to shimmer,
a breath, a shift—then light unfurls like wings.
Not one, but many futures split the air,
A whispered voice that stirs beneath their bones—
The old flesh sheds, and something new takes root.
I cannot look away. They are at peace.
I envy how they wear their knowing like sunlight,
their shapes folding, bending into place,
each form a perfect echo of their soul.
They do not struggle as I have, nor wait
seasons to unlock their own true name,
to rise, reborn beneath a darker sky.
In this place, the rite is not of flesh,
but pulse and color, essence and thought.
There are no cruel mirrors, no guarded doors to fear—
no need for names that hide behind the mask.
Here, they grow, then step out of impossible mist,
while I, a mere tourist with a form foreign to my soul
must force my change through an endless, sleepless night.
My chest burns at the thought. Why must I wait
lifetimes, while they shift with simple grace,
their bodies changing like the turning moon,
and mine, unchanged, a cage that strains to breathe?
They step so boldly into who they are,
and I remain, an outsider, lost, alone—
the parts of me that twist like an alien machine,
untouched by any rite, by any magic,
as they embrace the future in their hands—
a world where self-determination blooms,
where I could finally wake and walk into the light.
The children fade, their forms in starlight cast,
while I persist, my body still a cage.
The future I have fought for slips away,
I ask myself: is it too late to become?
next swallow
potent timber
clear hound
brave shadow