Breathe in the dust…

Let the kiln-light rise.

Skin of the earth, painted with dusk,

Baked into me are names you hushed.

Tiny faces pressed to my chest —

hundred lullabies put to rest.

When I tilt my head to the sky,

cracks in the clay begin to cry.

I am the CLAY CHOIR — breathing the dust,

opening the mouth you sealed with rust.

Not a monster — I’m the host,

a temple of echoes, a lantern for ghosts.

Ash… is older than fire.

They pressed their names into me —

skin baked in screams.

My ribs… are prisons

for voices you buried in dreams.

I open my throat —

a tunnel of clay.

Their silence erupts —

I let it… decay.

VOICES IN MY SKIN —

they are louder than God.

I walk like a tomb

but I sing like a flood.

The dead have no tongues —

so I give them mine.

Each scar is a choir

rising in time.

Name by name — rise, rise!

Beat the drum — rise, rise!

From the kiln — rise, rise!

Open the eyes — rise!

I am the CLAY CHOIR — breathing the dust,

voices of many carried by one.

Let the earth ring, let the ghosts burn bright —

I open my mouth and give them light.

Clay!

Ash!

Rise!

Burn!

VOICES IN MY SKIN —

let them thunder and fall.

The broken shall march

through my body’s call.

I was the vessel.

Now I’m the flame.

I carry the lost —

and scream out their names.