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bram
bram
25 Just getting into poetry and figuring things out as I go. Mostly writing what feels difficult to say out loud.
Poems1
Words152
A ribcage cradling a crimson core, roses bloom from it— all thorns, no budding, roots reaching downward, never finding soil, wrapped around a warping spine, stems constricting, coiled. Planted from an absence that was never really felt, seeded in the center, the only place that held. Slowly growing inward, petals never formed, withering in fragments, silently ignored. Blight begins to take hold, roots twisting through bone, the spine no longer warping, but stilled into stone. —the crimson core still cradled, unchanged, alone.
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Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 1:36 PM UTC
Where No Soil Would take
A ribcage cradling a crimson core, roses bloom from it— all thorns, no budding, roots reaching downward, never finding soil, wrapped around a warping spine, stems constricting, coiled. Planted from an absence that was never really felt, seeded in the center, the only place that held. Slowly growing inward, petals never formed, withering in fragments, silently ignored. Blight begins to take hold, roots twisting through bone, the spine no longer warping, but stilled into stone. —the crimson core still cradled, unchanged, alone.
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