Between two trees, he sways— one root in the earth, one reaching sky, bound by a thread of light to the quiet pull of space. His head tips down, but his eyes turn inward, searching the seams of shadow for a crack, a tremor, a way out of the silence.
Coins spill from his hands, not gold but weightless, each one a thought discarded, a truth left hanging like breath caught between worlds.
Suspended, he becomes the question— neither here nor there, but hung in the aching space where the body bends to dream.
Red and white, his blood sings the song of every sacrifice, a rhythm lost in the sky’s endless reach. He sways, not from wind, but from the soft unraveling of the ground beneath him.
To hang is to listen, to let go, to cling only to the pull of the unseen, the rope a tether to the self he cannot yet name.
He is offered to himself,
and the trees—
those pillars of thought—
stand silent, waiting
for him to fall,
or rise.
