Roots of the Unspoken Mind

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Beneath the loam of thoughtless skies,
where synapse-trees in shadows rise,
a face takes root in shifting clay,
its nerves as branches bent astray.
Eyes of amber, wide and stark,
drink the whispers from the dark.
“Who am I?” the rooted asks,
as soil and stars unmask their tasks.
“Are these tendrils mine to weave,
or do they grow through what I believe?”
Answers coil in tangled air,
echoes lost—was meaning there?
The winds blow backward, slow, reverse,
twisting time into a curse.
The skin is bark; the bark is skin,
an arbored soul that dwells within.
Thoughts bloom fungal, bright and grim,
their spores a hymn to a world grown dim.
“Was I man, or earth’s mistake?
Am I the dream the roots awake?
If limbs can stretch and bones can grow,
must I reap what the worms bestow?”
These questions hang like broken fruit,
decay begins; yet deeper, the root.
Above, the stars blink out one by one—
not swallowed, but forgotten.
Below, the soil churns, undone,
an answer sprouts, misbegotten.
For life, it seems, does not decide
to root itself in what abides.
Through thought and branch, the figure knew:
creation is chaos in verdant hue.
No mind defines the shape it bore,
yet all shapes hunger, reaching for more.
The trial ends; the cosmos spins.
Who speaks the roots? And where begins?