đź•Ż Soft Weight in the Undersoil đź•Ż
There is a sound beneath all sound—
a hush that kneels below both bell and dirge.
It speaks where mouths forget to move,
where knuckles bloom from learning silence,
where something yields, not under law,
but by the ache with which stone learns surrender.
A body learns what pressure sculpts—
not by doctrine, nor decree—
but by the groan of wood beneath a heel,
the gasp withheld a breath too long,
the iron tang of unopened rooms,
the tilt of ceilings bending toward the spine.
No names are carved in such a soil.
No signs are nailed where absence governs.
What happens here is not an act—
but a slow unraveling, atom by thread,
like fibers tugged from a widow’s sleeve,
or rainfall drunk by the thirst of graves.
The air gives no defense, no plea,
offers no hand, nor asks a why.
It only alters—then alters again—
as if to murmur: You have not died.
And not-dying becomes the proof,
though none can name the hour it began.
Not broken. Not spared. Not crowned.
Only changed—beyond all telling.
Stillness thickens where pain once nested,
and from that stillness, form will rise—
not as triumph, nor as flight,
but as the knowing of what dark can cradle.
So hear me, O Crusher of the Bent—
do not mistake me for unmade.
The weight you cast has found its bed.
I carry it, still breathing. Still becoming.
And though I bear no mark you named,
I will remember how you pressed.
Written by Marguerite Grace
Copyright Protected
verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 